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Book . E g 

& 3 

? xy A *' 







f Books give the same turn to our thoughts and way of reasoning, that good and ill company 
do to our behaviour and conversation ; without either loading our memories, or making us even 
sensible of the change.— Swift. 









t iF Swift's maxim taken for the motto of this volume be true, — if 
, ' books do give the same turn to our thoughts and way of reasoning, 
that good and ill company do to our behaviour and conversation," — 
, perhaps the bulk of modern books for children, — and, most of all, those 
which are written with a deliberate affectation of childishness, in what 
is called the language of the nursery, — may give no better turn to their 
thoughts and way of reasoning, than would be given to their behaviour 
and conversation, if people were purposely to put on before them the 
behaviour and conversation of the kitchen or the stable. It is unlikely 
that minds which have chiefly fed upon, and have learned to relish the 
silly, false, affected trash with which the new books for the young 
teem, will preserve a just taste for what is manly, and real, and 

At any rate it seems well that the best models of thought and ex- 
pression should be among those which are before us at the time when 
we are most prone to imitate. English children do learn something of 
the great writers of Greece and Rome, and of the great poets of Eng- 
land, but they often, and perhaps mostly, finish what is called their 
education, scarcely knowing even the names of many of the great 


writers of English prose. The design of this book is to give that 
knowledge and some slight acquaintance with the works of those 

It may not be found amusing by young persons whose reading has 
been limited to what are called books for the young, but by those who 
have also known better things, some even of the graver parts may 
perhaps be liked; indeed, the first thought of the work came from 
seeing that a little girl, nine years old, read with pleasure the passage 
of Isaak Walton's Complete Angler, which is placed under the title of 
Morals and Religion. And if the collection should not find favour 
with the young, for whose sake it was made, yet, since it contains 
some of the best passages, of the best writers, of not the worst lan- 
guage of the world, it may be not altogether unworthy the notice of 
those who were once young. 

September, 1843. 







109, 328. 




149, 245, 421. 



20, 246, 470. 







Born before 1480. 

Born. Died. 

Mandeville, Sir John About 1300 Nov. 17, 1371 ... 

Malory, Sir Thomas (flourished about 1469) 

Lord Berners About 1467 March 16, 1532. 

Born from 1480 to 1580. 

The Age of the Reformation. 

Born. Died. 

More, Sir Thomas 14S0 July 6, 1535 ... 

Ascham, Roger About 1515 Dec. 30, 1568... 

Holinshed, Raphael.. About 1526 About 1580 

Knolles, Richard About 1544 1610 

Raleigh, Sir Walter . 1552 Oct. 29, 1618 ... 

Spenser, Edmund About 1553 Jan. 16, 1599 ... 

Hakluyt, Richard ... About 1553 Nov 23, 1616 ... 

Sidney, Sir Philip ... Nov. 29, 1554.. Oct'. 16, 1586 ... 

Hooker, Richard March 1554 ... Nov. 2, 1600 ... 

Lord Bacon Jan. 22, 1561 ... April 9, 1626 ... 

Shakespeare/William April 23, 1564... April 23, 1616... 
Jonson, Ben June 11, 1574... Aug. 6, 1637 ... 

Purchas, Samuel 1577 1628 


Born from 1580 to 1630. 

The Age of the Commonwealth. 

Born. Died. Pages 

Hales, John April 19, 1584... May 19, 1656 ... 164. 

Pym, John 1584 Dec. 8, 1643 ... 341. 

Selden, John Dec. 16, 1584 ... Nov. 30, 1654... 471. 

Lord Strafford April 13, 1593... May 12, 1641 ... 329. 

Walton, Isaak Aug. 9, 1593 ... Dec. 15, 1683 ... 168, 398, 448. 

Chillingworth, Wm. . October 1602 ... Jan. 30, 1644 ... 171. 

Browne, Sir Thomas... Oct. 19, 1605 ... Oct. 19, 1682 ... 284. 

Fuller, Thomas 1608 Aug. 16, 1661... 4/5. 

Lord Clarendon Feb. 18, 1608... Dec. 9, 1674 ... 117- 

Milton, John Dec. 9, 1608 ... Nov. 8, 1674 ... 174, 289. 

Taylor, Jeremy August 1613 ... Aug. 13, 1667... 177- 

Cudworth, Ralph 1617 June 26, 1688... 192. 

Cowley, Abraham 1618 July 28, 1667 ... 290. 

Patrick, Simon Sept. 8, 1626 ... May 31, 1707... 194. 

Temple, Sir William . 1628 January 1699 ... 479. 

Bunyan, John 1628 Aug. 12, 1688... 198. 

Barrow, Isaac October 1630 ... May 4, 1677 ... ,206. 

Born from 1630 to 1750. 

The Restoration, the Revolution, and the Accession of the House of Hanover. 

Born. Died. p a ge» 

Dryden, John Aug. 9, 1631 ... May 1, 1700 ... 485. 

Locke, John Aug. 29, 1632... Oct. 28, 1704 ... 292. 

South, Robert 1633 July 8, 1716 ... 221. 

Defoe, Daniel 1661 April 24, 1731... 1,24,297- 

Swift, Jonathan Nov. 30, 1667... Oct. 19, 1745 ... 298, 491. 






Congreve, William ... 

February 1670.. 

Jan. 19 ; 1729 ... 


Addison, Joseph 

May 1, 1672 .. 

June 17, 1719... 


Sherlock, Thomas 


July IS, 1761 ... 


Lady M. W. Montagu 

About 1690 

Aug. 21, 1762... 


Butler, Joseph 


June 16, 1752... 


Warburton, William 

Dec. 24, 1698.. 

June 7, 1779 ... 


Lord Chatham 

Nov. 15, 1708.. 

May 11, 1778 ... 


Johnson, Samuel 

Sept. 7, 1709 •• 

Dec. 13, 1784... 


Hume, David 

April 26, 1711.. 

Aug. 25, 1776... 


Gray, Thomas 

Sept. 20, 1716.. 

July 31, 1771 ... 


Walpole, Horace 


March 2, 1797 .. 


White, Gilbert 

July 18, 1720.. 

June 26, 1793... 


Robertson, William .. 


June 11, 1793... 


Byron, John 

Nov. 8, 1723 .. 



Goldsmith, Oliver ... 

Nov. 29, 1728... 

April 4, 1774 ... 



Bruce, James 

Dec. 14, 1730.. 

April 27, 1794... 


Burke, Edmund 

Jan. 1, 1731 ... 

July 9, 1797 ... 

314, 373. 

Cowper, William 

Nov. 15, 1731.. 

April 25, 1800... 


Gibbon, Edward 

April 27, 1737... 

Jan. 16, 1794 ... 


Born since 1 





Sheridan, R. B 

Sept. 1751 

July 7, 1816 ... 


Crabbe, George 

Dec. 24, 1754.. 

Feb. 3, 1832 ... 


Cobbett, William 

March 9, 1762 . 

. June 18, 1835... 

5, 494. 

Hall, Robert 

May 2, 1764 .. 

Feb. 21, 1831 ... 


Mackintosh, Sir James 

Oct. 24, 1765 .. 



Wilson, Alexander ... 

July 6, 1766 .. 

Aug. 23, 1813... 


Scott, Sir Walter 

Aug. 15, 1771- 

Sept. 21, 1832... 


Southey, Robert 

Aug. 12, 1774.. 

. March 21, 1843. 


Lamb, Charles 

Feb. 18, 1775 .. 

December 1834 . 

13, 89, 497. 

Dec. 16, 1775 .. 

e July 18, 1817 ... 
. April 3, 1826 ... 


Heber, Reginald 

April 21, 1783.. 



Living Authors. 

Jameson, Mrs 500. 

The Duke of Wellington 91, 324. 

Napier, Colonel William Fox Patrick 96, 141. 

Audubon, John James 463. 

Landor, Walter Savage 404. 

Dana, R. H 441. 

Head, Sir F, B 440. 


PART r. 



The Battle of Edgehill DanielDefoe 1 

The GreatPlague Daniel Defoe 4 

Moor Park, near Famham, Surrey William Cobbett 7 

Avington, Hampshire William Cobbett 8 

The Valley of the Avon, Wiltshire William Cobbett 9 

Theodora Cowper Robert Southey 11 

The Temptation Charles Lamb 13 


Sir Gareth 

The Death of Sir Launcelot 

Amadis of Gaul 

The Princesses of Arcadia 

Musidorus and Pamela 

The Cares of Ill-gotten Wealth 77.. 

The Indian Kings in London 

The Vision of Mirza 

The Death of Sir Roger de Coverley 

The Family of Wakefield 

The Family of Wakefield after the Loss of~i 

their Fortune J 

A Walk by the Sands 

The Funeral of the last Lord of Ravenswood 

The Mermaiden's Fountain 

The Funeral of LucyAshton. The Death of ^ 

Edgar Ravenswood / 

The second Villiers, Duke of Buckingham... 

Sir Thomas Malory .... 16 

Sir Thomas Malory .... 17 

Robert Southey 18 

Sir Philip Sidney 21 

Sir Philip Sidney 22 

DanielDefoe 24 

Joseph Addison 26 

Joseph Addison 28 

Joseph Addison 30 

Oliver Goldsmith 32 

Oliver Goldsmith. 


Sir Walter Scott 35 

Sir Walter Scott 38 

Sir Walter Scott 40 

Sir Walter Scott 42 

Sir Walter Scott 44 


!! arin y Price Jane Austen *5 

Fraternal Love Jane AugTEN ' 

An Oaf t.^tt, a 

Jane Austen 52 

Over-anxious Caution j ANE AusTEN _ ^ 

The Discovery Jane Austen 56 

Anonymous 58 

M. W. Montagu 
M. W. Montagu 
M. W. Montagu 


Turkish Ladies Lady 

La Trappe. Florence Lady 

Popular Authors of the Day Lady 

The English Lakes Thomas Gray 

The Study of the Law Thomas Gray 73 

The Trial of the Rebel Lords of 1745 Horace Walpole 76 

The Coronation of George III Horace Walpole 79 

Beauties of George II.'s Court. Horace Walpole 80 

Houghton revisited Horace Walpole 80 

Rural Sounds William Cowper 83 

OIney and Weston William Cowper 84 

TheThrockmortons William Cowper 85 

The Death of a Fox William Cowper 86 

Versification William Cowper 87 

Appeal to Edmund Burke George Crabbe 88 

A Roasting Pig Charles Lamb 89 

Loveof London Charles Lamb 90 

The Loss of an Old Friend Charles Lamb 90 

The Duty of an Invaded People Duke of Wellington... 92 

Croaking in the Army DuKE OF Wellington... 93 

The Death of Lieutenant-Col. Cameron Duke of Wellington. . . 94 

General Trant's Retreat before Marmont .... Duke of Wellington. . . 94 

Newspapers DuKE of Wellington... 94 

The Battle of Waterloo Duke of Wellington... 95 

Vindication Colonel Napier 98 



The Battle of Crecy Lord Berners f 1 102 

The Black Prince and his Knights Lord Berners J Tran f tor I 105 

The Battle of Calais Lord Berners [ Froissart - J 106 



The Murder of the Two Young Princes in j Sjr Thqmas Mqre no 

the Tower > 

The Murder of Edward II Raphael Holinshed .... 112 

The Murder of Mustapha Richard Knolles 115 

The Character of John Hampden Lord Clarendon 118 

The Character of Lucius Viscount Falkland Lord Clarendon 119 

The Character of Edward I David Hume 126 

The Maid of Orleans David Hume 127 

The Storming of Rome William Robertson .... 129 

The Battle of Pavia William Robertson .... 130 

Chivalry William Robertson .... 132 

Misery of the Romans under Tiberius and| Edward Qibbon 135 

his Successors J 

Ransom of Rome by Alaric Edward Gibbon 136 

Right of Property Edward Gibbon 137 

The Siege of Zaragoza R,obert Southey 138 

The Battle of Albuera Colonel Napier 141 

The Storming of Badajos Colonel Napier 143 


Nobility Sir Walter Raleigh... 151 

Death Sir Walter Raleigh... 152 

The Law of Nature Richard Hooker 155 

The Law of Reason Richard Hooker 156 

Social Law Richard Hooker 157 

Church Musick Richard Hooker 158 

The Promulgation of the Law Joseph Hall 160 

The Passion Joseph Hall 162 

Against Duelling John Hales 165 

For Peace in the Church John Hales 167 

The Blessing of a Meek and Thankful Heart Isaak Walton 170 

Against Duelling Wm. Chillingworth ... 172 

The Omnipresence of God Wm. Chillingworth ... 173 

The Youth of Milton John Milton 175 

The Religion of Jesus JeremyTaylor 178 

How to Lengthen Life JeremyTaylor 179 

The Judgment JeremyTaylor 180 

The Danger of Trusting to a Late Repentance JeremyTaylor 181 

The Character of Frances Countess of Carbery Jeremy Taylor 185 

The Minister's Duty in Life JeremyTaylor 186 

The Minister's Duty in Doctrine JeremyTaylor 187 



The Danger of Offending in Trifles JeremyTaylor 189 

Christian Simplicity JeremyTaylor 190 

The Miracles of the Divine Mercy JeremyTaylor 191 

The Providence of God Ralph Cudworth 192 

Against judging of the Works of God by parts Ralph Cudworth 193 

Humility Simon Patrick 194 

Temperance Simon Patrick 196 

The Combat with Apollyon John Bunyan 199 

The Valley of Humiliation John Bunyan 201 

The Sin of making Religion a Stalking-horse John Bunyan 202 

Against Jesting with Sacred Things Isaac Barrow 207 

Religion the only Source of True Joy Isaac Barrow 20/ 

Industry the peculiar Duty of a Gentleman Isaac Barrow 209 

Of a Peaceable Temper Isaac Barrow 210 

The Submission of the Will Isaac Barrow 211 

The Excellency of the Christian Religion .... Isaac Barrow 212 

The Personal Character of the Messias Isaac Barrow 216 

Without Religion Society could not subsist... Isaac Barrow 219 

The Uncertainty of the Present Robert South 221 

Pleasure Robert South 222 

The Progress and End of Sensuality Robert South 223 

Against Immodest Language Thomas Sherlock 224 

The Duties of the Rich and the Rights of| Thqmas Sherlock 225 

the Poor J 

The Government of God by Punishment .... Joseph Butler 226 

The Character of Balaam Joseph Butler 229 

Luxury William Warburton... 231 

The Catacombs Samuel Johnson 236 

Against the Mechanick Philosophy Robert Hall 238 

The Death of the Princess Charlotte of Wales Robert Hall 239 


English Archery and Early English Writers Roger Ascham 241 

Education Roger Ascham 243 

Creation and Providence Sir Walter Raleigh ... 245 

Popular Discontent Sir Philip Sidney 246 

The Dignity and Excellency of Knowledge | L()RD Ba _ c(W 2 81 

and Learning J 



Lord Bacon 282 

Lord Bacon 282 

Lord Bacon 283 

Sir Thomas Browne ... 284 
Sir Thomas Browne ... 285 
Sir Thomas Browne ... 287 

John Milton 289 

John Milton 289 

Abraham Cowley 291 

John Locke 295 

John Locke 295 

John Locke 296 

Daniel Defoe 297 

Jonathan Swift 311 

David Hume 313 

Edmund Burke 319 

Edmund Burke 320 

Duke of Wellington... 324 
Duke of Wellington... 324 
Duke of Wellington... 325 
Duke of Wellington... 326 




Funeral Rites 

Vulgar Errors 

The Cessation of Oracles 


For the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing 

The Government of Oliver Cromwell 

The Right of Property 


Lying and Excuses 

The Power of the People 

Private Judgment on Publick Affairs 

Publick Credit 

Against the Mechanick Philosophy 

Admonition to the Duke of Bedford 

Secrecy in the Conduct of Publick Business 

The Miseries of War 

Popular Enthusiasm 

The Wars of Buonaparte were Financial ... 



Defence of Sir Thomas More Sir Thomas More 

Defence of Lord Strafford Lord Strafford .. 

Mr. Pym's Reply to Lord Strafford's Defence John Pym 

The American War Lord Chatham 

Against the Employment of the Indians .... Lord Chatham 

Against the Acknowledgement of the Inde- "l 

, c a ■ f -Lord Chatham 

pendence of America J 

Despotism Edmund Burke ... 

The conclusion of the Opening Speech on "1 
the Impeachment of Warren Hastings . . I 

The conclusion of the Reply on the Im- 
peachment of Warren Hastings 

The Defence of Peltier on his Trial for al . 

T .. . . , r, r Sir James Mackintosh 

Libel against Buonaparte J 

Edmund Burke 












The Evil Customs of the English Settlers in 


\ Edmund Spenser 381 

Ireland ) 

Scenes from Much Ado about Nothing William Shakespeare. 390 

A Scene from The Silent Woman Ben Jonson 395 

A Scene from Every Man in his Humour ... Ben Jonson 396 

The Milk-Maid Isaak Walton 398 

A Scene from The Way of the World William Congreve 400 

A Scene from The Rivals { R,CHD ' BeINSIEY ShE " } 403 


Imaginary Conversation between Lady Jane ) „_ „ T 

>, j ti a v > Walter Savage Landor 404 

Grey and Roger Ascham J 



The Daughter of Hippocrates Sir John Mandeville . 408 

The Wonders of Egypt Sir John Mandeville . 409 

, _ . ■ f Richard Hakluyt's \ . 19 

Frobisher s Streights \ Collection of Voyages J 4 i2 

„. „ . _ . , XT _ , ,, „ T ,, f Richard Hakluyt's 1 ^,,- 

Sir Francis Drake s Voyage Round the World i Collection. |41o 

f Sir Walter Raleigh, "1 
The River Orinoco ■< from Richard Hak- I- 421 

L luyt's Collection ... J 

The Elephant Samuel Purchas 423 

The Brazilians Samuel Purchas 425 

Western Patagonia John Byron 427 

TheDesert James Bruce 431 

Otaheite in 1777 Robert Anderson 437 

The Andes Sir F. B. Head 440 

Doubling Cape Horn R. H. Dana 441 





The Trout Isaak Walton 448 

Gold and Silver Fish Gilbert White 450 

Snakes' Slough Gilbert White 451 

Spiders Gilbert White 451 

Sociality of Brutes Gilbert White 452 

The White-headed or Bald Eagle Alexander Wilson .... 453 

The Mocking-Bird Alexander Wilson .... 456 

The Tiger — The Lion Reginald Heber 461 

The Wild Turkey John James Audubon... 464 

The Key West Pigeon John James Audubon... 467 

The ZenaidaDove John James Audubon... 468 



The Defence of Poesie — Dramatick Poetry, "> 
Lyrick Poetry, and Heroick Poetry J 




Charles I. summoning a Parliament to Oxo 
ford J 

Moral Honesty 



Thanksgivi ng 

Church Government 

The Design of Fuller's Worthies of England 

Queen Elizabeth 

Kent the Vanguard of England 


Tenterden's Steeple is the Cause of the "i 
Breach in Goodwin Sands J 

London Cockneys 

To Dine with Duke Humphrey 

Sir Philip Sidney 470 

John Selden 472 

John Selden 472 

John Selden 473 

John Selden 473 

John Selden 473 

John Selden 473 

John Selden 474 

John Selden 474 

John Selden 474 

Thomas Fuller 475 

Thomas Fuller 476 

Thomas Fuller 477 

Thomas Fuller 477 

Thomas Fuller 477 

Thomas Fuller 478 

Thomas Fuller 478 



English Gardens Sir William Temple ... 482 

Long Life Sir William Temple ... 483 

Dedication to the Duke of Newcastle John Dryden 487 

The Dramatick Unities of Place and Time. . . John Dryden 489 

Advice to a Young Clergyman. On Style ... Jonathan Swift 491 

Satire against Modern Criticks Jonathan Swift 492 

Observance due from Husbands to theirs TTT 

Wives j- William Cobbett 494 

Sobriety of Conduct and Warmth of Feeling William Cobbett 495 

A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars in the 1 „ 

J J-CharlesLamb 497 

Character 1 


The Character of Miranda Mrs. Jameson 503 

The Character of Portia (Merchant of Ve-T , T T 

. x ^Mrs. Jameson 501 

nice) J 






Was the son of a butcher, and born in the parish of St. Giles, Cripplegate, London, 
in the year 1661. At the age of fourteen he was placed at a school at Newing- 
ton Green, where he stayed five years. He was a dissenter and a whig, and in 
1685 joined the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion. From 1687 to 1715 he wrote po- 
litical tracts, but he spoke the truth too plainly to please any party ; he was pilloried, 
fined and twice imprisoned. Unpopular and out of Court favour at the accession 
of George I., he ceased to write on politics. In 1719 he published 'Robinson 
Crusoe.' and afterward many other works of fiction. His 'Memoirs of a Cavalier' 
and ' A Journal of the Plague of 1665,' were written under feigned characters, but 
the main incidents are true. He died on the 24th of April 1731, and was buried in 
the dissenters' burial-ground in Bunhill-fields, being named in the register Mr. 

He is the most voluminous of English writers ; he wrote history and fiction, on 
politics and trade, morals and religion, and both in prose and verse. His political 
writings are justly praised for their wisdom and truth, and very little read. He had 
great power in giving reality to his fictions, utterly forgetting himself and assuming 
entirely the character in which he wrote ; no man's fiction has been so often mistaken 
for fact. His style is simple, forcible and pure. 

' Robinson Crusoe' is in every body's hands, and therefore specimens are given from 
other of his tales, including under that name ' The Memoirs of a Cavalier,' and the 
' History of the Plague.' A passage from one of his political tracts is placed under 
the head of ' Philosophy and Policy.' 


We were now in full march to fight 
the Earl of Essex. It was on Sunday 
morning, the 24th of October 1642, fair 
weather over head, but the ground very 
heavy and dirty. 

As soon as we came to the top of Edge- 
hill we discovered their whole army. They 
were not drawn up, having had two miles 
to march that morning, but they were very 
busy forming their lines, and posting their 
regiments as they came up. Some of their 
horse were exceedingly fatigued, having 



marched forty-eight hours together ; and 
had they been suffered to follow us three 
orfour days' march further, several of their 
regiments of horse would have been quite 
ruined, and their foot would have been 
rendered unserviceable for the present. 
But we had no patience. 

As soon as our whole army was come 
to the top of the hill, we were drawn up 
in order of battle. The king's army made 
a very fine appearance, and indeed they 
were a body of as gallant men as ever ap- 
peared in the field, and as well furnished 
at all points ; the horse exceedingly well 
accoutred, being most of them gentlemen 
and volunteers, some whole regiments 
serving without pay; theirhorsesverygood, 
and as fit for service as could be desired. 

The whole army were not above eighteen 
thousand men, and the enemy not one 
thousand over or under, though we had 
been told they were not abovetwelve thou- 
sand ; but they had been reinforced with 
four thousand men from Northampton. 

The king was with the general, the 
Earl of Lindsey, in the main battle ; 
Prince Rupert commanded the right wing, 
and the Marquis of Hertford, the Lord 
Willoughby, and several other very good 
officers, the left. 

The signal of battle being given with 
two cannon-shot, we marched in order of 
battalia down the hill, being drawn up in 
two lines with bodies of reserve. The 
enemy advanced to meet us much in the 
same form, with this difference only, that 
they had placed their cannon on their 
right, and the king had placed ours in 
the centre, before, or rather between, 
two great brigades of foot. Their cannon 
began with us first, and did some mischief 
among the dragoons of our left wing ; but 
our officers perceiving the shot took the 
men and missed the horses, ordered all 
to alight, and every man leading his 
horse, to advance in the same order ; 
and this saved our men, for most of the 
enemy's shot flew over their heads. 

Our cannon made a terrible execution 
upon their foot for a quarter of an hour, 
and put them into great confusion, till 
the general obliged them to halt, and 
changed the posture of his front, march- 
ing round a small rising ground, by which 
he avoided the fury of our artillery. 

By this time the wings were engaged, 
the king having given the signal of battle, 
and ordered the right wing to fall on. 
Prince Rupert, who commanded that wing, 
fell on with such fury, and pushed the left 

wing of the parliament army so effectually, 
that in a moment he filled all with terror 
and confusion. Commissary-general Ram- 
sey, a Scotchman, an experienced officer, 
commanded their left wing, and though 
he did all that an expert soldier and brave 
commander could do, yet it was to no pur- 
pose ; his lines were immediately broken, 
and all overwhelmed in a trice. 

Two regiments of foot, whether as part 
of the left wing, or on the left of the main 
body, I know not, were disordered by 
their own horse, and rather trampled to 
death by the horses than beaten by our 
own men ; but they were so entirely 
broken, that I do not remember that ever 
they made one volley upon our men, for 
their own horse running away, and falling 
foul on these foot, were so vigorously fol- 
lowed by us, that the foot never had a 
moment to rally or look behind them. 

The point of the left wing of horse were 
not so soon broken as the rest, and three 
regiments of them stood firm for some 
time ; the dexterous officers of the other 
regiments taking the opportunity, rallied 
a great many of their scattered men be- 
hind them, and pieced in some troops 
with those regiments ; but after two or 
three charges which a brigade of our se- 
cond line, folio wingthe prince, made upon 
them, they also were broken with the rest. 

I remember that, at the great battle of 
Leipsic, the right wing of the Imperialists 
having fallen in upon the Saxons with 
like fury to this, bore down all before 
them, and beat the Saxons quite out of 
the field, upon which the soldiers cried, 
" Victoria ! let us follow." 

" No, no," said old General Tilly, " let 
them go, and let us beat the Swedes, too, 
then all is our own." 

Had Prince Rupert taken this method, 
and, instead of following the fugitives, 
who were dispersed so effectually that two 
regiments would have secured them from 
rallying — I say, had he fallen in upon 
the foot, or wheeled to the left, and fallen 
in upon the rear of the enemy's right 
wing of horse, or returned to the assist- 
ance of the left wing of our horse, we had 
gained the most absolute and complete 
victory that could be, nor had a thousand 
men of the enemy's army got off. 

But this prince, who was full of fire, 
and pleased to see the rout of the enemy, 
pursued them quite to the town of Keyn- 
ton, where indeed he killed abundance of 
their men, and some time also was lost 
in plundering the baggage ; but in the 


mean time the glory and advantage of the 
day was lost to the king, for the right 
wing of the parliament horse could not 
he so broken. 

Sir William Balfour made a desperate 
charge upon the point of the king's left, 
and had it not been for two regiments of 
dragoons, who were planted in the re- 
serve, had routed the whole wing ; for he 
broke through the first line, and stag- 
gered the second, who advanced to their 
assistance, but was so warmly received by 
those dragoons, who came seasonably in, 
and gave their first fire on horseback, that 
his fury was checked, and having lost a 
great many men, he was forced to wheel 
about to his own men ; and had the king 
had but three regiments of horse at hand 
to have charged him, Balfour had been 

The rest of this wing kept their ground, 
and received the first fury of the enemy 
with great firmness ; after which, advan- 
cing in their turn, they were once masters 
of the Earl of Essex's cannon. 

And here we lost another advantage ; 
for if any foot had been at hand to sup- 
port these horse, they had carried off the 
cannon, or turned it upon the main body 
of the enemy's foot ; but the foot were 
otherwise engaged. The horse on this 
side fought with great obstinacy and va- 
riety of success, a great while. 

Sir Philip Stapylton, who commanded 
the guards of the Earl of Essex, being en- 
gaged with a party of our Shrewsbury 
cavaliers, as we called them, was once in 
a fair way to have been cut off by a bri- 
gade of our foot, who being advanced to 
fall upon the parliament's main body, 
flanked Sir Philip's horse in their way, 
and, facing to the left, so furiously charged 
him with their pikes, that he was obliged 
to retire in great disorder, and with the 
loss of a great many men and horses. 

All this while the foot on both sides 
were desperately engaged, and, coming 
close up to the teeth of one another with 
the clubbed musket and push of pike, 
fought with great resolution, and a ter- 
rible slaughter on both sides, giving no 
quarter for a great while ; and they con- 
tinued to do thus till, as if they were 
tired and out of wind, each party seemed 
willing enough to leave off andtake breath. 

Those which suffered most were that 
brigade which had charged Sir Philip 
Stapylton's horse, who, being bravely en- 
gaged in the front with the enemy's foot, 
were, on the sudden* charged again in 

front and flank by Sir William Balfour's 
horse and disordered, after a very despe- 
rate defence. 

Here the king's standard was taken, 
the standard-bearer, Sir Edward Varney, 
being killed ; but it was rescued again by 
captain Smith, and brought to the king 
the same evening, for which the king 
knighted the captain. 

This brigade of foot had fought all the 
day, and had not been broken at last if 
any horse had been at hand to support 
them. The field began to be now clear : 
both armies stood, as it were, gazing at 
one another ; only the king, having rallied 
his foot, seemed inclined to renew the 
charge, and began to cannonade them, 
which they could not return, most of their 
cannon being nailed while they were in 
our possession, and all the cannoniers 
killed or fled, and our gunners did execu- 
tion upon Sir William Balfour's troops 
for a good while. 

My father's regiment being in the right 
with the prince, I saw little of the fight 
but the rout of the enemy's left, and we 
had as full a victory there as we could 
desire, but spent too much time in it : 
we killed about two thousand men in that 
part of the action, and having totally 
dispersed them, and plundered their bag- 
gage, began to think of our friends when 
it was too late to help them. 

We returned, however, victorious to 
the king just as the battle was over; and 
the king asked Prince Rupert, "What 
news ?" He told him he could give his 
majesty a good account of the enemy's 
horse. " Ay," said a gentleman that stood 
by me, " and of their carts too." 

Those words were spoken with such a 
sense of the misfortune, and made such an | 
impression in the whole army, that it oc- 
casioned some ill blood afterwards among 
us, and but that the king took up the bu- 
siness, it had been of ill consequence ; for 
some person who had heard the gentle- 
man speak it, informed the prince who it 
was, and the prince, resenting it, spoke 
something about it in the hearing of the 
party when the king was present. 

The gentleman, with a manly freedom, 
told his highness openly he had said the 
words, and though he owned he had no 
disrespect for his highness, yet he was i 
still of opinion the enemy's army might 
have been better beaten. The prince 
replied something very disobliging; upon 
which the gentleman came up to the king, 
and, kneeling, humbly besought his ma- j 



jesty to accept of his commission, and to 
give him leave to tell the prince, that 
whenever his highness pleased, he was 
ready to give him satisfaction. 

The king was so concerned at this mis- 
understanding between them, that he 
seemingly was very much out of humour 
with the prince about it. However, his 
majesty soon ended the dispute, by laying 
his commands on them both to speak no 
more of it for that day ; and refusing the 
commission from the colonel, for he was 
no less, sent for them both next morning 
in pnvate, and made them friends again. 

Daniel Defoe. 


The fury of the distemper increased to 
such a degree that even the markets were 
very thinly furnished with provisions, or 
frequented with buyers, compared to what 
they were before ; and the Lord Mayor 
caused the country people who brought 
provisions to be stopped in the streets 
leading into the town, and to sit down 
there with their goods, where they sold 
what they brought, and went immediately 
away ; and this encouraged the country 
people greatly to do so, for they sold their 
provisions at the very entrances into the 
town, and even in the fields, as particu- 
larly in the fields beyond Whitechapel, in 
Spitaifields, — Note. — Those streets now 
called Spitaifields were then indeed open 
fields; — also in St. George's fields inSouth- 
wark, in Bunhill-fields, and in a great 
field called Wood's Close, near Islington. 
Thither the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and 
magistrates, sent their officers and ser- 
vants to buy for their families, themselves 
keeping within doors as much as possible, 
and the like did many other people : and 
after this method was taken, the country 
people came with great cheerfulness, and 
brought provisions of all sorts, and very 
seldom got any harm, which, I suppose, 
added to the report of their being mira- 
culously preserved. 

As for my little family, having laid in a 
store of bread, butter, cheese, and beer, I 
took my friend and physician's advice, 
and locked myself up and my family, and 
resolved to suffer the hardship of living a 
few months without flesh meat, rather 
than purchase it at the hazard of our lives. 
But though I confined my family, I 
could not prevail upon my unsatisfied cu- 

riosity to stay within entirely myself; and 
though I generally came frightened and 
terrified home, yet I could not restrain, 
only that indeed I did not do it so fre- 
quently as at first. 

I had some little obligations indeed 
upon me to go to my brother's house, 
which was in Coleman -street parish, and 
which he had left to my care, and I went 
at first every day, but afterwards only once 
or twice a week. 

In these walks I had many dismal scenes 
before my eyes, as particularly of persons 
falling dead in the streets, terrible shrieks 
and screechings of women, who in their 
agonies would throw open their chamber 
windows, and cry out in a dismal, surpri- 
sing manner ; it is impossible to describe 
the variety of postures in which the pas- 
sions of the poor people would express 

Passing through Token-house yard in 
Lothbury, of a sudden a casement violently 
opened just over my head, and a woman 
gave three frightful screeches, and then 
cried, " Oh ! death, death, death !" in a 
most inimitable tone, and which struck 
me with horror and achillness in my very 
blood. There was nobody to be seen in 
the whole street, neither did any other 
window open, for people had no curiosity 
now in any case, nor could any body help 
one another; so I went on to pass into 

Just in Bell-alley, on the right-hand of 

the passage, there was a more terrible cry 

than that, though it was not so directed 

out at the window, but the whole family 

was in a terrible fright, and I could hear 

women and children run screaming about 

the rooms like distracted, when a garret 

window opened, and somebody from a 

window on the other side the alley called 

' and asked, " What is the matter ?" upon 

! which, from the first window it was an- 

i swered, " My old master has hanged him- 

I self!" The other asked again, "Is he 

quite dead ? " and the first answered, "Ay, 

ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold!" 

This person was a merchant, and a deputy 

alderman, and very rich. I care not to 

mention the name, though I knew his 

name too, but that would be a hardship to 

the family, which is now flourishing again. 

But this is but one ; it is scarce credible 
what dreadful cases happened in particular 
famibes even 7 day ; people in the rage of 
the distemper, or in the torment of their 
swellings, which was indeed intolerable, 
running out of their own government, 


raving and distracted, and oftentimes lay- mere fright and surprise, without any in- 
ing violent hands upon themselves, throw- fection at all ; others frighted into idiotism 
ing themselves out at their windows, shoot- and foolish distractions, some into despair 
ing themselves, &c. Mothers murdering and lunacy, others into melancholy mad- 
their own children in their lunacy, some j ness. Daniel Defoe. 

dying of mere grief, as a passion, some of | 


The son of a small farmer, was born at Farnham in Surrey on the 9th of March 1762, 
and worked in the fields as soon as he was able to walk. At the age of eleven, hearing ! 
of the beauty of Kew Gardens, he went off to seek work there without saying a word j 
to any one, with thirteen half-pence in his pocket, and from that time never put his 
parents to a farthing in expense. In 1783, for eight or nine months, he was writing 
clerk to an attorney in Gray's Inn, a service of which in after life he spoke with horror, 
likening himself to Gil Bias in the robber's cave. In 1784 he enlisted as a private 1 
soldier, and then applied with great diligence to study grammar and to read. In 1785 
he sailed with his regiment to America, and until 1791 was in Nova Scotia, and in New i 
Brunswick where he was raised to the rank of serjeant-major. In December 1791, j 
his regiment being in England, he got his discharge. In 1792 he married and went 
to France, and from France, in 1793, to the United States of America, where he first \ 
began to write, making fierce attacks on the American democratic party who sided ' 
with France against England. In 1800 he returned to his country, and in 1802 i 
began ' The Political Register,' a weekly paper, which he continued until his death, | 
and which was directed generally against all parties and all public men, and particularly \ 
against the government and government abuses. In 1817, fearing to be prosecuted 
for his political writings, he again went to the United States and returned home in 
1819. In December 1832 he was elected Member for the borough of Oldham, which 
he represented in parliament until his death ; he died on the 18th of June 1835, and 
was buried at Farnham. 

For more than forty years, Cobbett was without ceasing engaged in political writing. 
He wrote pure vigorous English, often coaise but not vulgar, and his meaning could 
never be mistaken. He ^\as acute in argument, fierce in sarcasm, full of illustration, 
and although constantly repeating the same topics, never tedious ; but he had violent 
passions and prejudices : he despised to the uttermost what he did not know, while 
whatever he knew became, in his eyes, because he knew it, of supreme importance ; 
he was always in earnest, but looking only to the object of the moment, and acting 
upon the passion of the moment, he was for ever inconsistent : he was violent in in- 
vective, implacable in hatred, and his political friendship not to be relied on. 

He has traced the dawning of his intellectual powers to the perusal of the greatest 
work of Dean Swift — the ' Tale of a Tub :' he tells us, that after he had run from home 
at the age of eleven, having but threepence in his pocket to buy his supper, he saw a 
little book in a shop window at Richmond in Surrey, on the outside of which was 
written " Tale of a Tub, price Threepence ;" that he gave up his supper, bought the 
book, and went into a field, under a hay-stack, to read it, and though he could not at 
all understand some of it, it delighted him beyond description, and produced what he 
always considered a sort of birth of intellect ; he carried the book with him wherever 
he went, until he lost it in a box which fell overboard in the Bay of Fundy in North 


America, a loss which gave him greater pain than he ever felt at losing thousands of 

The genius and wit of Cobbett are not to be compared with those of the author of 
the ' Tale of a Tub,' and of ' Gulliver's Travels,' nor as a politician can he be weighed 
against the counsellor of Harley and Bolingbroke and the first successful assertor of 
the independence of Ireland ; yet making allowance for the better education of Swift, 
for his having passed his early manhood with Sir William Temple, and for the circum- 
stances of his later life, there are many points of resemblance between the two. Each 
wrote to effect his purpose, not for display. A pure and correct style was com- 
mon to both. If there was more violence in Cobbett's invective there was less 
ill-nature ; fierce as he was, he wrote more from passion and less from a deliberate 
intention to wound ; nor has he anything so virulent as Swift's satire on the Duchess 
of Somerset in the ' Windsor Prophecy.' Cobbett, of all men, carried his hatred and 
contempt beyond the grave ; and Swift showed the same evil spirit in his elegy on the 
Duke of Marlborough, and in his satire on Steele, in the ' Rhapsody.' Swift had ex- 
tensive learning ; Cobbett none ; but in the contempt of the former for logical and 
mathematical science, of which he was ignorant, and for the profound learning of 
Bentley, there may be found something of Cobbett's scorn of all book-learning ; and 
in each case the feeling was real, not assumed, to cover the consciousness of a want. 
They had the same stubborn independence, the same jealousy of personal slight, 
especially from those above them in rank. They equally hated the tyranny of others, 
and required implicit obedience to themselves. They had the same dislike of lawyers, 
bankers and grinders of the poor, the same religious care for personal cleanliness, and 
the same love of the country, which, with Cobbett, was a passion, and is to be found 
in Swift's frequent and fond mention of Laracor and its pippins, and trout stream and 
willows, in his long walks, and in his delight in overlooking improvements on the 
property of his friends. 

Of Cobbett's works not strictly political, the best are his ' Rural Rides,' beautiful 
views of English scenery, and his ' Advice to Young Men,' full of home, and homely 
truths. He had an honest and true admiration of woman ; without any pretence to 
gallantry, no one saw more quickly or felt more deeply, or painted more touchingly 
the moral beauty and dignity of her character ; and he was very far from being insen- 
sible to her personal beauty. 

In one part of his political conduct he was consistent. He was proud of England, 
and loved the common people from whom he sprung ; he suffered no man to Me with 
impunity against the character of the labourers, whom he looked upon as the most 
industrious and virtuous people in the world. The aim of his life was to leave them as 
well off as he had found them, to seek out and destroy whatever he thought had tended 
to make their condition worse. If he failed to discover the source of the evil *, or if 
his violent passions and prejudices prevented him from applying a remedy, still the 
object was worthy of ambition, and he who sought it perhaps as worthy of honour as 
the doctor politick most skilful 

: In finding ways and means and stopping gaps ; 
Who knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, 
Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease." 

* He thought that the national debt was the great cause of the calamities which the common people 
suffered ; — that " the Bank never could pay in specie without a reduction of the debt, or without a 
total ruin of all the active part of the nation engaged in trade or agriculture ;"— and that, " in all 
human probability, the whole of the interest of the debt, and all the sinecures and pensions and sala- 
ries, and also the expenses of a thundering standing army, will continue to be made up by taxes, by 
loans from the Bank, by Exchequer bills, by every species of contrivance, to the latest possible mo- 
ment, and until the whole of the paper system, amidst the war of opinions, of projects, of interests, 
and of passions, shall go to pieces like a ship upon the rocks." 



The extracts which follow directly are from the ' Rural Rides.' Two passages from 
Advice to Young Men' will he found among the ' Miscellanies.' 

Since the above notes were written, a writer iu the ' Quarterly Review' (No. 141), 
criticising the wretched modern books for children, and losing for a time, in the dis- 
gust with which they filled Mm, all power to distinguish, has treated with severe con- 
tempt the instance of maternal love related by Cobbett in the extract entitled " Ob- 
servance due from husbands to their wives." It had been quoted by some sorry writer 
who was under the reviewer's lash, and the latter taking it for a piece of original 
composition, disposed of it in these words : — " This illustration of maternal affection 
may speak for itself,— the carpenter saved the child, a stranger offered him nine dol- 
lars for doing so, — but the mother shrieked." 

If the critic had ever heard a mother's shriek, probably he would not have made 
that crv the subject of a sneer. Cobbett was not writing an essay on maternal love, 
a passion which he noticed only incidentally. He was the last man to seek far for 
examples of what is common as the fight of heaven, and gave at once a scene which 
had passed before his own eyes full of terror and danger, and therefore sure to make a 
deep impression on the memory. The mother's love was shown in her rushing on- 
ward to certain death that she might shelter her child ; the man who rescued the 
child was saved but by a moment, and she, who was going right in among the feet 
of powerful and wild horses, must have perished. The blemish of the scene is the 
offer of the nine dollars : Cobbett should have known that it was impossible for a man, 
while his heart was lifted up by such a deed, to look down to a reward in money. 


27th Oct. 1825. 
We came over the heath from Thurs- 
lev this morning, on our way to Winches- 
ter ; Mr. Windham's fox-hounds are co- 
ming to Thursley on Saturday. More than 
three-fourths of all the interesting talk in 
that neighbourhood, for some days past, 
has been about this anxiously-looked for 
event. I have seen no man or boy who 
did not talk about it. There had been a 
false report about it ; the hounds did not 
come, and the anger of the disappointed 
people was very great. At last, however, 
the authentic intelligence came, and I 
left them all as happy as if all were young 
and all just going to be married. An 
abatement of my pleasure, however, on 
this joyous occasion was, that I brought 
away with me one who was as eager as 
the best of them. Richard, though now 
only eleven years and six months old, had, 
it seems, one fox-hunt in Herefordshire 
last winter; and he actually has begun 
to talk rather contemptuously of hare- 
hunting. To show me that he is in no 
danger, he has been leaping his horse 
over banks and ditches by the road-side, 
all our wav across the country from Rei- 

gate ; and be joined with such glee in talk- 
ing of the expected arrival of the fox- 
hounds, that I felt some little pain at 
bringing him away. My engagement at 
Winchester is for Saturday ; but if it 
had not been so, the deep and hidden 
ruts in the heath, in a wood in the midst 
of which the hounds are sure to find, and 
the immense concourse of horsemen that 
is sure to be assembled, would have made 
me bring him away. Upon the high, 
hard and open countries, I should not be 
afraid for him ; but here the danger would 
have been greater than it would have been 
right for me to suffer him to run. 

"We came hither by the way of Waver- 
ley Abbey and Moor Park. On the com- 
mons I showed Richard some of my old 
hunting scenes, when I was of his age, 
or younger, reminding him that I was 
obliged to hunt on foot. We got leave 
to go and see the grounds at Waverley, 
where all the old monks' garden walls 
are totally gone, and where the spot is 
become a sort of lawn. I showed him 
the spot where the strawberry garden 
was, and where I, when sent to gather 
hautboys, used to eat every remarkably 
fine one, instead of letting it go to be 
eaten by Sir Robert Rich. I showed him 
a tree, close by the ruins of the Abbey, 


from a limb of which I once fell into the 
river, in an attempt to take the nest of a 
crow, which had artfully placed it upon 
a branch so far from the trunk as not to 
be able to bear the weight of a boy eight 
years old. I showed him an old elm- 
tree, which was hollow even then, into 
which I, when a very little boy, once saw 
a cat go that was as big as a middle- 
sized spaniel dog, for relating which I got 
a great scolding, for standing to which I 
at last got a beating, but stand to which 
I still did; I have since many times re- 
peated it, and I would take my oath of it 
to this day. When in New Brunswick I 
saw the great wild grey cat, which is 
there called a Lucifee ; and it seemed to 
me to be just such a cat as I had seen at 
Waverley. I found the ruins not very 
greatly diminished ; but it is strange how 
small the mansion and ground, and every- 
thing butthe trees, appeared to me. They 
were all great to my mind when I saw 
them last, and that early impression had 
remained, whenever I had talked or 
thought of the spot ; so that when I 
came to see them again, after seeing the 
sea and so many other immense things, 
it seemed as if they had all been made 
small. This was not the case with regard 
to the trees, which are nearly as big here 
as they are anywhere else ; and the old 
cat-elm, for instance, which Richard mea- 
sured with his whip, is about sixteen or 
seventeen feet round. 

From Waverley we went to Moor Park, 
once the seat of Sir William Temple, and, 
when I was a very little boy, the seat of 
a Lady, or a Mrs. Temple. Here I showed 
Richard Mother Ludlam's Hole ; but, 
alas ! it is not the enchanting place that 
I knew it, nor that which Grose describes 
in his ' Antiquities ' ! The semicircular 
paling is gone ; the basins, to catch the 
never-ceasing little stream, are gone; the 
iron cups, fastened by chains, for people 
to chink out of, are gone ; the pavement 
all broken to pieces ; the seats, for people 
to sit on, on both sides of the cave, torn 
up and gone ; the stream that ran down 
a clean-paved channel, now making a 
dirty gutter ; and the ground opposite, 
which was a grove, chiefly of laurels, in- 
tersected by closely mowed grass-walks, 
now become a poor, ragged-looking alder- 
coppice. Near the mansion, I showed 
Richard the hill upon which Dean Swift 
tells us he used to run for exercise, while 
he was pursuing his studies here ; and I 
would have showed him the garden-seat, 

under which Sir William Temple's heart 
was buried, agreeably to his will ; but the 
seat was gone, also the wall at the back of 
it ; and the exquisitely beautiful little 
lawn in which the seat stood, was turned 
into a parcel of divers-shaped cockney- 
clumps, planted according to the strictest 
rules of artificial and refined vulgarity. 

William Cobbett. 


11th Nov. 1825. 

We lost another day at Easton ; the 
whole of yesterday, it having rained the 
whole day ; so that we could not have 
come an inch but in the wet. We started, 
therefore, this morning, coming through 
the Duke of Buckingham's park at Aving- 
ton, which is close by Easton, and on the 
same side of the Itchen. This is a very 
beautiful place. The house is close down 
at the edge of the meadow-land ; there is 
a lawn before it, and a pond, suppliedbythe 
Itchen, at the end of the lawn, and bound- 
ed by the park on the other side. The 
high road, through the park, goes very 
near to this water ; and we saw thousands 
of wild ducks in the pond, or sitting round 
on the green edges of it, while, on one 
side of the pond, the hares and pheasants 
were moving about upon a gravel-walk, 
on the side of a very fine plantation. We 
looked down upon all this from a rising 
ground, and the water, like a looking- 
glass, showed us the trees, and even the 
animals. This is certainly one of the very 
prettiest spots in the world. The wild 
water-fowl seem to take particular delight 
in this place. There are a great many at 
Lord Caernarvon's ; but there the water 
is much larger, and the ground and wood 
about it comparatively rude and coarse. 

Here, at Avington, everything is in such 
beautiful order ; the lawn, before the 
house, is of the finest green, and most 
neatly kept ; and the edge of the pond 
(which is of several acres) is as smooth as 
if it formed part of a bowling-green. To 
see so many wild fowl in a situation where 
everything is in the parterre-order, has a 
most pleasant effect on the mind; and 
Richard and I, like Pope's cock in the 
farm-yard, could not help thanking the 
Duke and Duchess for having generously 
made such ample provision for our plea- 
sure, and that, too, merely to please us as 
we were passing along. Now, this is the 


advantage of going about on horseback. 
On foot the fatigue is too great, and you 
go too slowly. In any sort of carriage you 
cannot get into the real country-places. 
To travel in stage-coaches, is to be hurried 
along by force, in a box with an air-hole 
in it, aiid constantly exposed to broken 
limbs, tbe danger being much greater than 
that of ship-board, and the noise much 
more disagreeable, while the company is 
frequently not a great deal more to one's 

From this beautiful spot we had to 
mount gradually the downs to the south- 
ward ; but it is impossible to quit the vale 
of the Itchen without one more look back 
at it. To form a just estimate of its real 
value and that of the lands near it, it is 
only necessary to know that from its 
source, at Bishop's Sutton, this river has, 
on its two banks, in that distance of nine 
miles (before it reaches Winchester), thir- 
teen parish churches. 

When we began to get up towards the 
downs, we, to our great surprise, saw ; 
them covered with snow. This made us 
change, our route again, and instead of 
going over the downs towards Hamble- 
don, in our way to see the park and the 
innumerable hares and pheasants of Sir 
Harry Featherstone, we pulled away more 
to the left, to go through Bramdean, and 
so on to Petersfield, contracting greatly 
our intended circuit. And, besides, I had 
never seen Bramdean, the spot on which I 
it is said Alfred fought his last great and 
glorious battle with the Danes. A tine 
country for a battle, sure enough! We 
stopped at the village to bait our horses ; 
and, while we were in the public-house, 
an exciseman came and rummaged it all 
over, taking an account of the various 
sorts of liquor in it, having the air of a 
complete master of the premises, while a 
very pretty and modest girl waited on him 
to "produce the divers bottles, jars, and 
kegs. I wonder whether Alfred had a 
thought of anything like this, when he 
was clearing England from her oppressors ? 
William Cobbett. 


28th August, 1826. 
I came off this morning on the Marl- 
borough-road about tw r o miles, or three, 
and then turned off over the downs, in a 

north-westerly direction, in search of the 
source of the Avon river, which goes clown 
to Salisbury. I had once been at Nether- 
avon, a village in this valley ; but I had 
often heard this valley described as one of 
the finest pieces of land in all England ; 
I knew that there were about thirty pa- 
rish churches, standing in a length of 
about thirty miles, and in an average 
width of hardly a mile; and I was re- 
solved to see a little into the reasons that 
could have induced our fathers to build all 
these churches, especially if, as the Scotch 
w T ould have us believe, there were but a 
mere handful of people in England until 
of late years. 

In steering across the down, I came to 
a large farm, wdiich a shepherd told me 
was Milton Hill Farm. This was upon 
the high land, and before I came to the 
edge of this Valley of Avon, which was 
my land of promise ; or, at least, of great 
expectation ; for I could not imagine that 
thirty churches had been built for nothing 
by the side of a brook (for it is no more 
during the greater part of the way) thirty 
miles long. The shepherd showed me the 
way towards Milton ; and at the end of 
about a mile from the top of a very high 
part of the down, with a steep slope to- 
wards the valley, I first saw this Valley of 
Avon ; and a most beautiful sight it was ! 
villages, hamlets, large farms, towers, stee- 
ples, fields, meadows, orchards, and very 
fine timber-trees, scattered all over the 
valley. The shape of the thing is this : 
on each side downs very lofty and steep 
in some places, and sloping miles back in 
other places ; but each outside of the val- 
ley are dow r ns. From the edge of the 
downs begin capital arable fields, generally 
of very great dimensions, and in some 
places running a mile or two back into lit- 
tle cross valleys, formed by hills of downs. 
After the cornfields come meadows on each 
side down to the brook or river. The 
farm-houses, mansions, villages, and ham- 
lets, are generally situated in that part of 
the arable land which comes nearest the 

Great as my expectations had been, they 
were more than fulfilled. I delight in this 
sort of country; and I had frequently seen 
the vale of the Itchen, that of the Bourne, 
and also that of the Teste, in Hampshire; 
I had seen the vales amongst the South 
Downs ; but I never before saw anything 
to please me like this valley of the Avon. 
I sat upon my horse and looked over 
Milton, and Easton, and Pewsy, for half 

B 5 



an hour, though I had not breakfasted. 
The hill was very steep. A road going slant- 
ing down it was still so steep, and washed 
so very deep by the rains of ages, that I did 
not attempt to ride down it, and I did not 
like to lead my horse, the path was so 
narrow. So seeing a boy with a drove of 
pigs going out to the stubbles, I beckoned 
him to come up to me, and he came and 
led my horse down for me. Endless is 
the variety in the shape of the high lands 
which form this valley. Sometimes the 
slope is very gentle, and the arable lands 
go back very far. At others, the downs 
come out into the valley, almost like piers 
into the sea, being very steep in their sides, 
as well as their ends towards the valley. 
They have no slope at their other ends : 
indeed they have no back ends, but run 
into the main high land. There is also 
great variety in the width of the valley ; 
great variety in the width of the meadows ; 
but the land appears all to be of the very 
best ; and it must be so, for the farmers 
confess it. 

Having gotten to the bottom of the 
hill, I proceeded on to the village of Mil- 
ton. After riding up to the church, as 
being the centre of the village, I went on 
towards the house of my friend, which lay 

on my road down the valley. I have many, 
many times witnessed agreeable surprise ; 
but I do not know that I ever, in the whole 
course of my life, saw people so much 
surprised and pleased as this farmer and 
his family were at seeing me. People 
often tell you that they are glad to see 
you, and in general they speak truth. I 
take pretty good care not to approach any 
house with the smallest appearance of a 
design to eat or drink in it, unless I be 
quite sure of a cordial reception ; but my 
friend at Fifield (it is in Milton parish), 
and all his family, really seemed to be de- 
lighted beyond all expression. 

When I set out this morning I intended 
to go all the way down to the city of Sa- 
lisbury to-day, but I soon found that to 
refuse to sleep at Fifield would cost me a 
great deal more trouble than a day was 
worth ; so that I made my mind up to 
stay in this farm-house, which has one of 
the nicest gardens, and it contains some 
of the finest flowers that I ever saw, and 
all is disposed with as much good taste as 
I have ever witnessed. Here I am then, 
just going to bed, after having spent as 
pleasant a day as I ever spent in mv 
life. William Cobbeti. 


Poet-Laureat of England, historian, biographer and critic, and eminent in each 
character. He is among the first living writers of English prose, if not the first. 
Even those whose political and religious opinions are most in opposition to him, have 
allowed the blameless purity of his life, — have spoken of him as full of the old feel- 
ings of loyalty and religion ; but he has been sometimes too bitter in serf-defence, 
and not quite just to his adversaries. 

The extract which follows is an episode from his life of William Cowper, and a few 
pages forward will be found a passage from his translation of ' Amadis of Gaul.' An 
account of the siege of Zaragoza from the ' History of the Peninsular War' is given 
afterwards. In explanation of the tale of Theodora Cowper it may be well to men- 
tion, that the supposed objection to the marriage with her cousin was that her father 
had perceived symptoms of the insanity which darkened the poet's after-life. 

Since the above note was written, Southey died on the 21st of March 1843, at 
Greta House, Keswick, in Cumberland. He was the son of a linen-draper of Bristol, 
where he was born on the 4th of October 1774, and was educated at Westminster 
School, and at Balliol College, Oxford. 




Among the circumstances which cheered 
Cowper at this time, there is one that 
proves how strong an interest he had. ex- 
cited in an individual. What was the na- 
ture of the first communication from this 
person cannot he collected from any do- 
cuments that have yet appeared, hut it is 
thus spoken of in a letter to LadyHesketh. 
" Hours and hours and hours have I spent 
in endeavours altogether fruitless, to trace 
the writer of the letter that I send, by a 
minute examination of the character ; and 
never did it strike me, till this moment, 
that your father wrote it. In the style I 
discover him ; in the scoring of the em- 
phatic words (his never-failing practice) ; 
in the formation of many of the letters ; 
and in the Adieu! at the bottom, so plain- 
ly, that I could hardly be more convinced 
had I seen him write it. Tell me, my 
dearest cousin, if you are not of my mind ? 
how much am I bound to love him if it be 
so ! Always much ; but in that case, if 
possible, more than ever. 

" Farewell, thou beloved daughter of 
my beloved anonymous uncle." 

That Lady Hesketh did not confirm this 
suspicion is certain, and he did not repeat 
it when he informed her of a second and 
more important letter from the same un- 
known. " Anonymous is come again. 
May God bless him, whosoever he be, as 
I doubt not that he will ! A certain per- 
son said on a certain occasion (and He 
never spake word that failed), ' whoso 
giveth you a cup of cold water in my name, 
shall by no means lose his reward.' There- 
fore, Anonymous as he chooses to be upon 
earth, his name, I trust, shall hereafter be 
found written in heaven. But when great 
princes, or characters much superior to 
great princes, choose to be incog, it is a 
sin against decency and good manners to 
seem to know them. I therefore know 
nothing of Anonymous, but that I love him 
heartily, and with most abundant cause. 
Had I opportunity, I would send you his 
letter, though, yourself excepted, I would 
indulge none with a sight of it. To con- 
fide it to your hands will be no violation 
of the secrecy that he has enjoined him- 
self, and consequently me. But I can give 
you a short summary of its purport. After 
an introduction of a religious cast, which 
does great honour to himself, and in which 
he makes an humble comparison between 
himself and me, bv far too much to mv 

advantage, he proceeds to tell me, that 
being lately in company where my last 
work was mentioned, mention was also 
made of my intended publication. He 
informs me of the different sentiments of 
the company on that subject, and expresses 
his own in terms the most encouraging ; 
but adds, that having left the company 
and shut himself up in his chamber, an 
apprehension there seized him lest, if per- 
haps the world should not enter into my 
views of the matter, and the work should 
come short of the success that I hope for, 
the mortification might prove too much 
for my health; yet thinks that even in 
that case I may comfort myself by ad- 
verting to similar instances of a failure, 
where the writer's genius would have in- 
sured success, if anything could have in- 
sured it, and alludes in particular to the 
fate and fortune of the ' Paradise Lost.' In 
the last place, he gives his attention to my 
circumstances, takes the kindest notice of 
their narrowness, and makes me a present 
of an annuity of fifty pounds a year, wish- 
ing that it were five hundred pounds. In 
a P.S. he tells me that a small parcel will 
set off by the Wellinborough coach on 
Tuesday next, which he hopes will arrive 
safe. I have given you the bones ; but 
the benignity and affection, which is the 
marrow of those bones, in so short an 
abridgment, I could not give you. 

" I kept my letter unsealed to the last 
moment, that I might give you an account 
of the safe arrival of the expected parcel. 
It is at all points worthy of the letter- 
writer. Snuff-box, purse, notes, Bess, 
Puss, Tiney, — all safe. Again, may God 
bless him ! " 

In his next letter he says, " It is very 
pleasant, my dearest cousin, to receive a 
present so delicately conveyed as that 
which I received so lately from Anony- 
mous ; but it is also very painful to have 
nobody to thank for it. I find myself 
therefore driven by stress of necessity, to 
the following resolution, viz. that I will 
constitute you my Thanks-receiver-gene- 
ral for whatsoever gift I shall receive 
hereafter, as well as for those that I have 
already received from a nameless benefac- 
tor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, 
for a most elegant present, including the 
most elegant compliment that ever poet 
was honoured with ; for a snuff-box of 
tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape 
on the lid of it, glazed with crystal, ha- 
ving the figures of three hares in the fore- 
ground, and inscribed above with these 



words, The Peasant's Nest, — and below 
with these — Tiney, Puss, and Bess. For 
all and every of these I thank you, and 
also for standing proxy on this occasion. 
Nor must I forget to thank you that so 
soon after I had sent you the first letter 
of Anonymous, I received another in the 
same hand. There ! now I am a little 

I have no means of ascertaining who 
this benefactor was ; though undoubtedly 
Lady Hesketh was, as Cowper supposed, 
in the secret. It was not Lady Hesketh 
herself, because after her offer of assist- 
ance had been made and accepted, she 
would not have affected any mystery" in 
bestowing it. Nor is it likely to have 
been her father. Handwritings may, like 
faces, be distinctly remembered for twenty 
years, but in the course of twenty years 
both undergo a great though gradual 
change ; and it is more probable that Cow- 
per should be mistaken when he thought 
he had detected his uncle's hand, than 
that the latter, choosing to remain un- 
known, should have given so direct a clue 
to a discovery. Could it be his daughter 
Theodora ? Were it not that the compa- 
rison which the letter-writer drew be- 
tween Cowper and himself, seems to be 
one which would have occurred only to a 
man, I should have no doubt that Theo- 
dora was the person ; and notwithstand- 
ing that obvious objection, am still in- 
clined to think so ; for the presents were 
what a woman would have chosen, and it 
is certain that her love was as constant 
as it was hopeless. Hers was a melan- 
choly lot ; but she had the consolation of 
knowing now wherefore, and how wisely 
her father had acted in forbidding a mar- 
riage which must have made her miserable 

However desirous Cowper may have 
been to know from whom this benefaction 
came, he thought himself bound to repress 
all curiosity. Upon the arrival of another 
letter, with the announcement of another 
parcel from the same unknown, he says 
to his cousin, " who is there in the world 
that has, or thinks he has, reason to love 
me to the degree that he does ? But it is 
no matter. He chooses to be unknown, 
and his choice is, and ever shall be, so 
sacred to me, that if his name lay on the 
table before me reversed, I would not 
turn the paper about that I might read it. 
Much as it would gratify me to thank 
him, I would turn my eyes away from the 
forbidden discovery. I long to assure him 

that those same eyes, concerning which he 
expresses such kind apprehensions lest 
they should suffer by this laborious under- 
taking, are as well as I could expect them 
to be, if I were never to touch either 
book or pen. Subject to weakness, and 
occasional slight inflammations, it is pro- 
bable that they will always be ; but I can- 
not remember the time when they enjoyed 
anything so like an exemption from those 
infirmities as at present. One would al- 
most suppose that reading Homer were 
the best ophthalmic in the world. I should 
be happy to remove his solicitude on the 
subject, but it is a pleasure that he will 
not let me enjoy. Well, then, I will be 
content without it ; and so content, that, 
though I believe you, my dear, to be in 
full possession of all this mystery, you 
shall never know me while you live, either 
directly, or by hints of any sort, attempt 
to extort or to steal the secret from you. 
I should think myself as justly punishable 
as the Bethshemites for looking into the 
ark, which they were not allowedto touch." 
The more this is considered the more 
probable it appears that the benefaction 
came from no other hand than Theodora's. 
The presents were all womanly, — all indi- 
cating a woman's kind and thoughtful 
regard for whatever might contribute to 
his comfort and convenience. The first 
had been a desk, which he supposed to be 
Lady Hesketh's gift ; and the arrival of 
which, after it had been delayed on the 
road and impatiently expected, and almost 
despaired of at last, he announced (under 
that impression) in a postscript thus cha- 
racteristically, " Oh, that this letter had 
wings, that it might fly to tell you that 
my desk, the most elegant, the completest, 
the most commodious desk in the world, 
and of all the desks that are or ever shall 
be, the desk that I love the most, is safe 
arrived. Nay, my dear, it was actually at 
Sherrington when the waggoner's wife 
(for the man himself was not at home) 
croaked out her abominable ' No.' Yet 
she examined the bill of lading, but either 
did it so carelessly, or, as poor Dick Madan 
used to say, with such an ignorant eye, 
that my name escaped her. My precious 
cousin, you have bestowed too much upon 
me. I have nothing to render to you in 
return, but the aflectionate feelings of a 
heart most truly sensible of your kind- 
ness. How pleasant it is to write upon 
such a green bank ! I am sorry that I 
have so nearly reached the end of my 
paper. I have now, however, only room 



to say, that Mrs. Unwin is delighted with 
her box, and bids me do more than thank 
you for it. "What can I do more, at this 
distance, but say that she loves you 
heartily, and that so do I ? The pocket- 
book is also the completest that ever I saw, 
and the watch-chain the most brilliant. 
Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer. 
" My dear, yours, W. C." 

In his next letter he says, " Dearest 
cousin, my desk is always pleasant, but 
never so pleasant as when I am writing to 
you. If I am not obliged to you for the 
thing itself, at least I am for your having 
decided the matter against me, and re- 
solving that it should come in spite of all 
objections. If I must not know to whom 
I am primarily indebted for it, at least let 
me entreat you to make my acknowledg- 
ments of gratitude and love." 

Some womanly present usually accom- 
panied the half-yearly remittance, and on 

one of these occasions further cause ap- 
peared for suspecting from what quarter 
they came. " By the post of yesterday," 
he says to Lady Hesketh, " I received a 
letter from Anonymous, giving me advice 
of the kind present which I have just 
particularized, in which letter allusion is 
made to a certain piece by me composed, 
entitled, I believe, ' The Drop of Ink.' 
The only copy I ever gave of that piece I 
gave to yourself. It is possible, therefore, 
that between you and Anonymous there 
may be some communication. If that 
should be the case, I will beg you just to 
signify to him, as opportunity may occur, 
the safe arrival of his most acceptable 
present, and my most grateful sense of 
it." Who but Theodora could it have 
been who was thus intimate with Lady 
Hesketh, and felt this deep and lively and 
constant regard for Cowper ? 

Robert Souther/. 


Was the son of a clerk to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple, London, was 
born in Crown-office Row on the 18th of February 1775, and was educated at Christ's 
Hospital. After having been employed for a little while in the South Sea House, he 
obtained in 1792 a clerkship in the East India House, from which he retired upon a 
pension in 1825. From the age of twenty-one he lived with his only sister, Mary, 
who survived him : he died in December 1834, and was buried in Edmonton Church- 

He was a thoroughly original thinker and writer ; in the ' Essays of Elia' he flings 
out his thoughts and feelings and affections, and wild fancies and quaint phrases, with 
as little reserve as if he were by his own fireside. His good-nature was perfect ; he 
could find something to love in every person, place and thing, unless it interfered with 
something which he already loved, for nothing could stand him in stead of " the old 
familiar faces," whether of things, places, or persons. His style, which is that of the 
old English writers, — " his midnight darlings his folios, the huge armfulls which he 
embraced with such intense delight," — is, nevertheless, his own unaffected style, not 
acquired by purposed imitation, but insensibly, as people grow like those among whom 
they live and whom they love. 

The tale of ' Barbara S.' which follows is true, but " Mrs. Crawford" seems to be 
a feigned name for the little heroine : it is not written in Lamb's peculiar style, which 
appears in another of the ' Essays of Elia,' under the head of 'Miscellanies.' Three 
of his letters, from a collection edited by Mr. Serjeant Talfourd, are given under the 
proper title. 


Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard 
many old theatrical people say, of all men 

least calculated for a treasurer. He had 
no head for accounts, paid away at ran- 
dom, kept scarce any books, and summing 
up at the week's end, if he found himself 



a pound or so deficient, blest himself that 
it was no worse. 

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a 
bare half-guinea. By mistake he popped 
into her hand — a whole one. 

Barbara tripped away. 

She was entirely unconscious at first of 
the mistake. Ravenscroft would never 
have discovered it. 

But when she had got down to the first 
of those uncouth landing-places, she be- 
came sensible of an unusual weight of 
metal pressing her little hand. 

Now mark the dilemma. 

She was by nature a good child. From 
her parents and those about her she had 
imbibed no contrary influence. But then 
they had taught her nothing. Poor men's 
smoky cabins are not always porticoes of 
moral philosophy. This little maid had 
no instinct to evil, but then she might be 
said to have no fixed principle. She had 
heard honesty commended, but never 
dreamed of its apphcation to herself. She 
thought of it as something which con- 
cerned grown-up people, men and women. 
She had never known temptation, or 
thought of preparing resistance against it. 

Her first impulse was to go back to the 
old treasurer, and explain to him his 
blunder. He was already so confused with 
age, besides a natural want of punctuality, 
that she would have had some difficulty in 
making him understand it. She saw that 
in an instant. And then it was such a bit 
of money ! and then the image of a larger 
allowance of butcher's meat on their table 
next day came across her, till her little 
eyes glistened and her mouth moistened. 
But then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been 
so good-natured, had stood her friend be- 
hind the scenes, and even recommended 
her promotion to some of her little parts. 
But again, the old man was reputed to be 
v/orth a world of money. He was sup- 
posed to have 50?. a-year clear of the 
theatre. And then came staring upon her 
the figures of her little stockingless and 

shoeless sisters. And when she looked at 
her own neatwhite cotton-stockings, which 
her situation at the theatre had made it 
indispensable for her mother to provide 
for her, with hard straining and pinching 
from the family stock, and thought how 
glad she should be to cover their poor 
feet with the same, — and how then they 
could accompany her to rehearsals, which 
they had hitherto been precluded from 
doing, by reason of their unfashionable 
attire, — in these thoughts she reached the 
second landing-place — the second, I mean, 
from the top — for there was still another 
left to traverse. 

Now virtue support Barbara ! 

And that never-failing friend did step 
in ; for at that moment a strength not her 
own, I have heard her say, was revealed 
to her— a reason above reasoning — and 
without her own agency, as it seemed (for 
she never felt her feet to move), she found 
herself transported back to the individual 
desk she had just quitted, and her hand in 
the old hand of Ravenscroft, who in silence 
took back the refunded treasure, and who 
had been sitting (good man) insensible to 
the lapse of minutes, which to her were 
anxious ages ; and from that moment a 
deep peace fell upon her heart, and she 
knew the quality of honesty. 

A year or two's unrepining application 
to her profession brightened up the feet 
and the prospects of her little sisters, set 
the whole family upon their legs again, 
and released her from the difficulty of dis- 
cussing moral dogmas upon a landing- 

I have heard her say, that it was a sur- 
prise, not much short of mortification to 
her, to see the coolness with which the 
old man pocketed the difference, which 
had caused her such mortal throes. 

This anecdote of herself I had in the 
year 1800, from the mouth of the late 
Mrs. Crawford, then sixty-seven years of 
age. Charles Lamb. 




Little or nothing more is known of the personal history of this writer than that he 
lived in the reign of Edward IV., and was a Welchman and a priest. In former times 
" Sir" was a title given to the clergy as well as to knights, as the readers of Shake- 
speare may remember, in the instances of Sir Hugh Evans the Welch parson, and Sir 
Topas the curate. About the year 1469, Sir Thomas Malory compiled the ' Morte 
d' Arthur,' translating into good old English, from several French romances, ' Lancelot 
de Lac,' ' Merlin,' ' Tristan,' ' The St. Greaal,' and others. This work, printed by 
Caxton in 1485, and of which Spenser made use in ' The Fairy Queen,' contains the 
history of King Arthur, and many of the Knights of the Round Table, collected without 
much regard to order. The tale of ' Sir Gareth of Orkney,' King Arthur's nephew, part 
of which follows this notice, has in it a beauty that belongs to few stories of chivalry. 
To the qualities that adorn all true knights, he adds patience and humility in the 
highest degree, and is free from the cruelty by which ancient knighthood was too 
often stained. His gentle forbearance to Lynet, the damosel savage, goes beyond even 
the courtesy of Colonel Napier to the Duchess of Abrantes. After having lived for a 
year under the assumed name of Beaumayns, in King Arthur's kitchen, he followed 
the damsel to undertake the adventure of her sister, the Lady Lyones. Lynet, not 
knowing that he was of gentle blood, insulted and reproached him, day after day, 
without mercy. Having overthrown Sir Kay and got the better of Sir Lancelot, 
when he had overtaken the damsel, anon, she said, " What dost thou here ? Thou 
stinkest all of the kitchen ; thy clothes be filthy of the grease and tallow that thou 
gainest in King Arthur's kitchen. Thinkest thou," said she, " that I endure thee for 
yonder knight that thou killest ? Nay, truly, for thou slewest him unhappily and 
cowardly, therefore turn again, filthy kitchen page." " Damsel," said Beaumayns. 
" say to me what ye will, I will not go from you, whatsomever ye say ; for I have un- 
dertaken to King Arthur for to achieve yoiu' adventure, and so shall I finish it to the 
end, either I shall die therefore." 

Again, after he had slain two knights : — 

" Alas !" she said, " that ever a kitchen page should have that fortune to destroy 
two such doughty knights ; thou thinkest thou hast done doughtily, — that is not so." 
" Fair damsel," said Beaumayns, " give me goodly language, and then my care is 

On another occasion, having pulled the green knight to the ground, Sir Gareth pro- ; 
mises to save his life if the damsel will ask it. She wishes to save the knight, but I 
scorns to ask a favour of the kitchen boy : then he made a semblance to slay him. 
" Let be," said the damsel, " thou filthy knave, slay him not, for an thou do, thou shalt | 
repent it." " Damsel," said Beaumayns, " your charge is to me a pleasure ; and at j 
your commandment his life shall be saved, and else not." Then he said, " Sir Knight J 
with the green arms, I release thee quit at this damsel's reqtiest, for I will not make i 
her wroth, — I will fulfil all that she chargeth me." 



At length the damsel relents. 

"Alas!" she said, "fair Beaumayns, forgive me all that T have mis -said or done 
against thee." " With all my heart," said he, " I forgive it, for ye did nothing hut as 
ye should do, for all your evil words pleased me ; and damsel," said Beaumayns, "since 
it liketh you to say thus fair unto me, know ye well, it gladdeth my heart greatly, and 
now me seemeth there is no knight living hut I am able enough for him." 

An edition of the ' Morte d' Arthur,' printed from Caxton and edited by Southey, 
was published in 1817. 


" Sire," said the damsel Lynet unto Sir 
Beaumayns, " look ye be glad and light, 
for yonder is your deadly enemy, and at 
yonder window is my lady, — my sister, 
dame Lyones." " Where ?" said Beau- 
mayns ; " yonder," said the damsel, and 
pointed with her finger. " That is truth," 
said Beaumayns, " she beseemeth afar the 
fairest lady that ever I looked upon ; and 
truly," he said, " I ask no better quarrel 
than now for to do battle, for truly she 
shall be my lady, and for her I will fight." 
And ever he looked up to the window with 
glad countenance. And the Lady Lyones 
made courtesy to him down to the earth 
with holding up both her hands. With 
that the red knight of the red lands called 
to Sir Beaumayns, " Leave, sir knight, thy 
looking, and behold me, I counsel thee ; 
for I warn thee well she is my lady, and 
for her I have done many strong battles." 
" If thou have so done," said Beaumayns, 
" me seemeth it was but waste labour, for 
she loveth none of thy fellowship, and thou 
to love that loveth not thee is but great 
folly ; for an I understood that she were 
not glad of my coming, I would be advised 
ere I did battle for her. But I understand 
by the sieging of this castle she may for- 
bear thy fellowship. And therefore wete 
thou well, thou red knight of the red lands, 
I love her, and will rescue her or else die." 
" Sayest thou that ?" said the red knight ; 
" me seemeth thou ought of reason to be- 
ware by yonder knights that thou sawest 
hang upon yonder trees." " Fye for shame !" 
said Beaumayns, " that ever thou shouldst 
say or do so evil, for in that thou shamest 
thyself and knighthood, and thou mayest 
be sure there will be no lady love thee 
that knoweth thy wicked customs. And 
now thou wenest that the sight of these 
hanged knights should fear me. Nay 
truly, not so; that shameful sight causeth 
me to have courage and hardiness against 
thee more than I would have had against 

thee an thou were a well-ruled knight." 
" Make thee ready," said the red knight 
of the red lands, " and talk no longer with 
me." Then Sir Beaumayns bade the dam- 
sel go from him, and then they put their 
spears in their rests and came together 
with all their might that they had both, 
and either smote the other in the midst of 
their shields, that the paytrellys, surcin- 
gles and cruppers burst, and fell to the 
earth both, and the reins of their bridles 
in their hands, and so they lay a great 
while sore stunned that all that were in 
the castle and in the siege wened their 
necks had been broken, and then many a 
stranger and other said the strange knight 
was a big man and a noble j ouster, for ere 
now we saw never no knight match the 
red knight of the red lands ; thus they 
said both within the castle and without. 
Then lightly they avoided their horses and 
put their shields afore them, and drew their 
swords and ran together like two fierce 
lions, and either gave the other such buf- 
fets upon their helms that they reeled 
backward both two strides, and then they 
recovered both and hewed great pieces of 
their harness and their shields that a great 
part fell into the fields. 

And then thus they fought till it was 
past noon, and never would stint till at 
the last they lacked wind both, and then 
they stood wagging and staggering, pant- 
ing, blowing and bleeding, that all that 
beheld them for the most part wept for 
pity. So when they had rested them 
awhile they went to battle again, tracing, 
racing,thrusting as two boars. And at some 
time they took their run as it had been two 
rams, and hurtled together that sometimes j 
they fell grovelling to the earth, and at 
sometime they were so amazed that either 
took the other's sword instead of his own. 

Thus they endured till evening time, 
that there was none that beheld them 
might know which was like to win the 
battle, and their armour was so far hewn 
that men might see their naked sides, and j 
in other places they were naked, but ever | 



the naked places they did defend, and the 
red knight was a wily knight of war, and 
his wily fighting taught Sir Beaumayns to 
he wise, but he bought it full sore ere he 
did espye his fighting. And thus by as- 
sent of them both they granted either the 
other to rest, and so they sat them down 
upon two mole-hills there beside the fight- 
ing-place, and either of them unlaced his 
helm and took the cold wind, for either of 
their pages was fast by them to come when 
they called to unlace their harness and 
to set it on again at their commandment. 
And then when Sir Beaumayns' helm was 
off he looked up to the window, and there 
he saw the fair lady, dame Lyones, and 
she made him such countenance that his 
heart waxed light and jolly, and therewith 
he bade the red knight of the red lands 
make him ready, and let us do the battle 
to the utterance. " I will," well said the 
knight, and then they laced up their 
helms, and their pages stood aside, and 
they stepped together and fought freshly ; 
but the red knight of the red lands awaited 
him,andat an overthwart smote him within 
the hand that his sword fell out of his 
hand, and then he gave him another buffet 
upon the helm that he fell grovelling to 
the earth, and the red knight fell over 
him for to hold him down. Then cried 
the maiden Lynet on high, " Oh, Sir Beau- 
mayns, where is thy couragebecome ? alas! 
my lady, my sister beholdeth thee, and she 
sobbeth and weepeth that maketh myheart 
heavy." When Sir Beaumayns heard her 
say so he started up with a great might 
and gat him upon his feet, and lightly he 
leaped to his sword and griped it in his 
hand and doubled his pace unto the red 
knight, and there they fought a new battle 
together. But Sir Beaumayns then dou- 
bled his strokes and smote so thick that 
he smote the sword out of his hand, and 
then he smote him upon the helm that he 
fell to the earth, and Sir Beaumayns fell 
upon him and unlaced his helm to have 
slain him, and then he yielded him and 
asked mercy, and said with a loud voice, 
" noble knight, I yield me to thy mercy." 
Then Sir Beaumayns bethought Mm upon 
the knights that he had made to be hanged 
shamefully, and then he said, " I may not 
with my worship save thy life, for the 
shameful deaths that thou hast caused 
many full good knights to die." " Sir," 
said the red knight of the red lands, " hold 
your hand, and ye shall know the causes 
why I put them to so shameful a death." 
M Say on," said Sir Beaumayns. " Sir, 

I I loved once a lady, a fair damsel, and she 
| had her brother slain, and she said it was 
Sir Launcelot du Lake or else Sir Gawayn, 
and she prayed me as I loved her heartily 
that I would make her a promise by the 
faith of myknighthoodfor to labour dailyin 
arms until I met with one of them, and all 
that I might overcome I should put them 
unto a villainous death; and this is the 
cause that I have put all these knights to 
death, and so I ensured her to do all the 
villainy unto King Arthur's knights, and 
that I should take vengeance upon all 
these knights; and, Sir, now I will thee tell 
that every day my strength increaseth till 
noon, and all this time have I seven men's 

Then came there many earls and barons 
and noble knights and prayed that knight 
| to save his life and take him to your pri- 
soner. And all they fell upon their knees 
and prayed him of mercy, and that he 
would save his life, "and Sir, (they all said,) 
it were fairer of him to take homage and 
fealty, and let him hold his lands of you, 
1 than for to slay him ; by his death ye shall 
have no advantage, and his misdeeds that 
J be done may not be undone. And there- 
! fore he shall make amends to all parties, 
and we all will become your men and do 
you homage and fealty." "Fair lords," said 
! Beaumayns, " wete you well I am full loth 
t to slay this knight, nevertheless he hath 
; done passing vile and shamefully. But 
! insomuch all that he did was at a lady's 
I request, I blame him the less, and so for 
1 your sake I will release him that he shall 
have his life upon this covenant, that he 
' go within the castle and yield him there 
j to the lady ; and if she will forgive and 
; quit him, I will well : with this, — he make 
! her amends of all the trespass he hath 
' done against her and her lands ; and also 
when that is done that he go into the 
{ court of King Arthur, and there that he 
: ask Sir Launcelot mercy and Sir Gawayn 
: for the evil will ye have had against them." 
J " Sir," said the red knight of the red lands, 
j "all this will I do as ye command, and 
firm assurance and pledges ye shall have." 
Sir Thomas Malory. 


And when Sir Hector heard such noise 
and light in the choir of Joyous garde, he 
alighted and put his horse from him, and 
came into the choir, and there he saw men 



sing the service full lamentably. And all 
they knew Sir Hector, but he knew not 
them. Then went Sir Bors to Sir Hector 
and told him how there lay his brother 
Sir Launcelot dead, and then Sir Hector 
threw his shield, his sword and helm from 
him. And when he beheld Sir Launcelot's 
visage he fell down in a swoon. And when 
he awaked it were hard for any tongue to 
tell the doleful complaints that he made 
for his brother. " Ah, Sir Launcelot," he 
said, "thou wert head of all Christian 
knights, and now I dare say," said Sir 
Hector, " thou Sir Launcelot there thou 
lyest that thou wert never matched of none 
earthly knight's hands. And thou wert 
the most courteous knight that ever bare 
shield. And thou wert the truest friend 
to thy lover that ever bestrode horse, and 
thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man 
that ever loved woman ; and thou w r ert the 
kindest man that ever struck with sword ; 
and thou wert the goodliest person that 
ever came among press of knights ; and 
thou wert the meekest roan and the gen- 
tlest that ever ate in Hall among ladies ; 
and thou wert the sternest knight to thy 
mortal foe that ever put spear in rest." 

Then there was weeping and dolour out 
of measure. Thus they kept Sir Launce- 
lot's corpse above ground fifteen days, and 
then they buried it with great devotion. 
And then at leisure they went all with the 
Bishop of Canterbury to his hermitage. 
And there thev were together more than 

a month. Then Sir Constantine that was 
Sir Cador's son of Cornwall Avas chosen 
King of England. And he was a full noble 
knight, and worshipfully he ruled this 
realm. And then this King Constantine 
sent for the Bishop of Canterbury, for he 
heard say where he was. And so he was 
restored unto his bishopric and left that 
hermitage. And Sir Bedwer was there 
ever styled hermit to his life's end. Then 
Sir Bors de Ganys, Sir Hector de Marys, 
Sir Gahalantyne, Sir Galyhud, Sir Galy- 
hodyn, Sir Blamore, Sir Bleoberys, Sir Vil- 
lyars le Valyaunt, Sir Clarrus of Clere- 
mount, all these knights drew them to 
their countries. Howbeit King Constan- 
tine would have had them with him, but 
they would not abide in this realm. And 
there they all lived in their countries as 
Holy-men. And some English books make 
mention that they went never out of En- 
gland after the death of Sir Launcelot, but 
that was but the good pleasure of the 
writers, for the French book maketh men- 
tion and is authorized that Sir Bors, Sir 
Hector, Sir Blamore, and Sir Bleoberys 
went into the Holy Land, anon as they 
had established their lands. For the Book 
saith so Sir Launcelot commanded them 
to do or ever he passed out of this world. 
And these four knights did many battles 
upon the Miscreants and Turks. And 
there they died upon a Good Friday. 

Sir Thomas Malory. 


(For Notes of his Life see p. 10.) 


Ten days that Damsel of Denmark re- 
mained in Scotland, not so much for plea- 
sure as because she had suffered much 
from the sea and for the ill- success of her 
search, and she feared that to return, when 
she had sped so ill, would be the death of 
her mistress. At length she took her leave, 
and receiving presents from the Queen of 
Scotland to Queen Brisena and Oriaua and 
Mabilia, she embarked for Great Britain, 
not knowing w T hat other course to pursue ; 
but that Lord of the World, who to those 
that are utterly without hope or remedy 

shows something of his power, that we 
may know it is He that helpeth us and 
not our own wisdom, He changed her voy- 
age, to her own great fear, and the fear 
and sorrow of all in the ship ; for the sea 
began to rage, and such a tempest arose, 
that the sailors lost all power over the 
ship and all knowledge of their course, 
and the ship w T as driven whither the winds 
would, they that were in her having no 
hope of life. At last one morning they 
came to the foot of the Poor Rock ; some 
of them knew the place, and said that 
Andalod the Hermit lived there, which, 
when the Damsel heard, she ordered them 
to put to land, that being rescued from 



| such a danger she might hear mass from 
| that holy man, and return thanks to the 
j Virgin Mary for the mercy which her glo- 
: rious Son had shown them. 

Beltenebros was sitting at this time by j 
the fountain under the trees, where he had j 
passed the night, and he was now so re- 
duced that he did not expect to live fifteen 
j days. What with weeping and with the I 
• wasting away of sorrow, his face was more 
[ deadly pale than sickness could have made ! 
! it, and so worn down and wan that no 
one could have known him. He saw the 
ship, and the Damsel and two Squires 
landing ; but his thoughts being wholly 
bent upon death, the things that once j 
gave him pleasure, as in seeing strangers 
J that he might help them if they needed 
succour, now had become hateful. So he ; 
rose and went into the chapel, and told ; 
the Hermit that there were strangers land- 
ed and coming up ; and then he knelt be- 
fore the altar, and prayed God to have | 
mercy upon his soul, for he was soon going 
to his account. The Hermit vested him- 
self to say mass, and the Damsel with Du- 
rin and Enil entered. After she had pray- 
ed she uncovered her face. Beltenebros \ 
rose from his knees, and seeiug her and j 
Durin, the shock was so great that he fell j 
down senseless. The Hermit thought him I 
dead, and exclaimed, "Ah, Lord Almighty ! 
why has it not pleased thee to have pity 
upon liim who might have done so much 
in thy service?" and the tears fell fast 
adown his long white beard. "Good Dam- 
sel," said he, " let these men help me to \ 
carry him to his chamber. I believe it is \ 
the last kindness we can do him." Enil j 
and Durin assisted to lift him up, and j 
they carried him into his chamber and j 
laid him upon a poor bed, and neither of i 
them knew him. 

After the Damsel had heard mass, she ; 
resolved to make her meal ashore, for she 
was weary of the sea. So by chance she 
asked " who that poor man was, and what 
sore sickness afflicted him ? " " He is a 
knight, who liveth here in penance." 
" He is greatly to be blamed," quoth she, 
" to choose so desert a place." " It is as 
you say," replied the Hermit, " for he has 
done so for the foolish vanities of the 
world, more than for the service of God." 
" I will see him," said the Damsel, " since 
you tell me he is a knight; perhaps there 
may be something in the ship which 
would relieve him." " That you may do, 
but he is so near his end, that I believe 
death will ease you of that trouble." 

Beltenebros was lying upon his bed, 
thinking what he should do : if he made 
himself known, that would be breaking 
his Lady's command ; and if he did not, 
he should remain without any hope or 
possible remedy ; but he thought to dis- 
obey her will would be worse than death, 
and so determined to be silent. The 
Damsel came to the bed-side and said, 
" Goodman, I learn from the Hermit that 
you are a knight, and because damsels 
are beholden to all knights for the dan- 
gers they encounter in our defence, I re- 
solved to see you, and leave with you any- 
thing which is in the ship that may con- 
tribute to your health." He made her no 
answer, but sobbed with such exceeding 
passion that she thought his soul was de- 
parting ; and because the room was dark 
she opened a shutter for the light, and 
drew r near to see if he were dead. They 
looked at each other some time, and the 
Damsel knew him not. At last she saw 
a scar in his face : it was the mark of a 
wound which Arcalaus had given him 
with his lance when Oriana was rescued ; 
then, tho' before she had no suspicion, 
she knew that this was Amadis. "Ah, 
Holy Mary, help me ! you are he, Sir ! " 
and she fell with her face upon the bed, 
and knelt down and kissed his hands. 
" Now r , Sir," said she, " your compassion 
and pardon are needed for her w r ho has 
w T ronged you, fur, if her unjust suspicion 
have reduced you to this danger, she her- 
self with more reason passes a life more 
bitter than death." Beltenebros took her 
in his amis and held her awhile, having 
no power to speak. She then gave him 
the letter: " Your Lady sends you this, and 
she bids you, if you are the same Amadis, 
whom she loves so well, to forget the past, 
and come to her in the castle of Mira- 
flores, and there receive her atonement 
for your wrongs, which excessive love oc- 
casioned." Amadis kissed the letter, and 
placed it upon his heart, saying, " Heart, 
take thy remedy, for there was none other 
that could save thee ! " 

This was the letter : 

' If great faults committed by enmity, 
when humbly acknowledged, deserve par- 
don, what shall we say to those which 
proceeded from excess of love ? Not that 
by this do I deny, my true friend, that I 
deserve exceeding punishment, for neither 
having considered your truth, that had 
never before failed, nor my own mind in 
how passionate a state it was. I pray you 
receive this Damsel as coming from one 



who humbly confesseth her fault, and who 
will tell you the wretchedness which she 
endures, who requests your pity, not be- 
cause she deserves it, but for your com- 
fort as well as her own.' 

Such joy had Beltenebros at this letter, 
that he was lost even as in his past sor- 
row, and tears that he did not feel ran 
down his cheeks. It was agreed between 
them that the Damsel should give out 
how she, took him aboard for his health 
sake, because on that rock he could have 
no help, and that as soon as possible they 
should take land and leave the ship. 
Beltenebros then told the Hermit by what 
happy chance the Damsel had found him, 
and besought him that he would take 
charge of the monastery that was to be 
built by his command at the foot of the 
rock of the Firm Island. This the old 
man promised, and Beltenebros then em- 
barked, being known of none but the 

They soon landed with the two Squires, 
and left the mariners. Presently they 
found a pleasant place upon the side of a 
brook, with many goodly trees, and there 
they resolved to rest, because Beltenebros 
was so weak; and there, if it had not 

been that the absence of his Lady afflicted 
him, he would have passed the pleasantest 
life, and best for his recovery that might 
be, for under those trees, where the 
brook-springs arose, they had their meals, 
and there was their tent for the night. 
There related they to each other all that 
had past, and a pleasure was it now to 
him to talk over his misery. Ten days 
they remained, and in that time he so re- 
gained strength, that his heart felt its old 
inclination for arms. He made himself 
known to Durin there, and took Enil for 
his Squire, who knew not whom it was 
that he served, but was well content with 
him for his gentle speech. Hence de- 
parting, in four days they reached a nun- 
nery ; there they determined that he and 
Enil should abide, while the Damsel and 
her brother went to Miraflores. She then 
gave Beltenebros money to buy horses 
and armour, and for his wants ; and she 
left behind her part of the Queen of 
Scotland's presents, that she might send 
Durin for them as if they had been for- 
gotten, and so he might bring news. 

Robert Southey. 

[From his translation of a Spanish version of Vasco 
Lobeira's Amadis of Gaul.] 


Was born at Penshurst in Kent on the 29th of November 1554, and after passin 
some time in a school at Shrewsbury, at the age of twelve or thirteen was entered ! 
at Christ Church, Oxford. In 1572 he began to travel, and passing through France, 
Italy and Germany, returned home in 1575, and was highly and deservedly favoured 
by Queen Elizabeth. In his twenty-sixth year he wrote the ' Arcadia,' at the request 
of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, but he left it incomplete, and had even di- 
rected that it should be destroyed. He was shot in battle at Zutphen in Holland on 
the 23rd of September 1586, and died on the lGth of October following; his body 
was brought to England and buried in St. Paul's Cathedral. 

" The pride of England and the admiration of Europe," he stood between the ages 
of chivalry and refinement, combining all that was admirable in both, — the true 
knight and the accomplished gentleman. The story of his giving water to the soldier 
while parching with thirst from his own death-wound has been told a thousand 
times and cannot be told too often : " The horse, furiously choleric, forced him to 
forsake the field. Passing by the rest of the army, where his uncle the general was, 
and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently j 
brought him ; but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth he saw a poor soldier 
carried along, ghastly casting up his eyes at the vessel, which Sir Philip perceiving, 
took it from his head, and delivered it to the poor man with these words, ' Thy ne- 
cessity is yet greater than mine.' When he had pledged the poor soldier, he was 



carried immediately to Arnheim." Immediately before bis deatb be called bis brotber 
to bim and spoke thus : " Love my memory, cberisb my friends ; their faith to me may 
assure you that they are honest ; above all, govern your will and affections by the 
will and word of your Creator : in me behold the end of the world, with all her vani- 
ties." No subject was ever so mourned : " It was accounted a sin for any gentleman 
of quality for many months after to appear at court or city in any light or gaudy ap- 

The 'Arcadia' is a mixture of what are called the Pastoral and Heroic Romances, 
most tiresome and unnatural compositions. The Romances of Chivalry spoke of 
feelings which had existence, and of facts which were at least believed, but in the 
others there was no shadow of truth. A king and queen, and princesses secluded 
in farm-houses under the dread of some mysterious oracle, with two princes disguised, 
one as an Amazon, the other as a cow-boy, are the chief persons of the ' Arcadia,' and 
talk for ever, and most tediously, of their loves and their battles. The value of the 
work consists in the dignity and beauty of its language ; the description of Musidorus 
on horseback in the latter of the following extracts has been often quoted with ap- 
plause, and the scene which goes before that description perhaps suggested to Sir 
Walter Scott two between Minna and Brenda in the ' Pirate.' 

Under the head of ' Philosophy and Policy,' there is another piece from the 
1 Arcadia' full of wise saws, which may bring to mind some modern instances ; and in 
the ' Miscellanies' is a beautiful passage from the ' Defence of Poesie.' 


This country Arcadia, among all the 
provinces of Greece, hath ever been had m 
singular reputation, partly for the sweet- 
ness of the air and other natural benefits, 
but principally for the well-tempered 
minds of the people, who (finding that 
the shining title of glory, so much affected 
by other nations, doth indeed help little 
to the happiness of life,) are the only peo- 
ple, which, as by then- justice and provi- 
dence, give neither cause nor hope to their 
neighbours to annoy them ; so are they 
not stirred with false praise to trouble 
others' quiet, thinking it a small reward 
for the wasting of their own lives in ra- 
vening, that their posterity should long 
after say, they had done so. Even the 
Muses seem to approve their good deter- 
mination, by choosing this country for 
their chief repairing place, and by bestow- 
ing their perfections so largely here, that 
the very shepherds have their fancies 
lifted to so high conceits, as the learned 
of other nations are content both to bor- 
row their names and imitate their cunning. 

Here dwelleth and reigneth this Prince 
(whose picture you see) by name Basilius ; 
a prince of sufficient skill to govern so 
quiet a country, where the good minds of 
the former princes had set down good 
laws, and the well bringing-up of the 
people doth serve as a most sure bond to 

hold them. But to be plain with you, he 
excels in nothing so much as the zealous 
love of his people, wherein he doth not 
only pass all his own foregoers, but as I 
think, all the princes living. Whereof the 

; cause is, that though he exceed not in 
the virtues which get admiration, as depth 
of wisdom, height of courage, and large- 
ness of magnificence, yet is he notable in 
those which stir affection, as truth of 
word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, 
and liberality. 

He being already well stricken in years, 

i married a young princess, named Gynecia, 
daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable 
beauty, as by her picture you see : a wo- 

I man of great wit, and in truth of more 
princely virtues than her husband; of 

; most unspotted chastity ; but of so work- 

! ing a mind and so vehement spirits, as a 
man may say, it was happy she took a 
good course, for otherwise it would have 
been terrible. 

Of these two are brought to the world 
two daughters, so beyond measure excel- 

j lent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable 

: creatures, that we may think they were 
born to show, that Nature is no step-mo- 
ther to that sex, how much soever some 
men (sharp-witted only in evil-speaking) 
have sought to disgrace them. The elder 

| is named Pamela ; by many men not 
deemed inferior to her sister : for my part, 
when I marked them both, methought 



there was (if at least such perfections may- 
receive the word of more) more sweetness 
in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela : 
methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, 
and threatened in Pamela's: methought 
Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so 
persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pa- 
mela's beauty used violence, and such 
violence as no heart could resist. And it 
seems that such proportion is between 
their minds : Philoclea so bashful, as 
though her excellencies had stolen into 
her before she was aware ; so humble, 
that she will piit all pride out of counte- 
nance ; in sum, such proceeding as will 
stir hope, but teach hope good manners. 
Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not 
pride with not knowing her excellencies, 
but by making that one of her excellencies 
to be void of pride ; her mother's wisdom, 
greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess 
aright) knit with a more constant temper. 
Sir Philip Sidney. 


She went alone up to Pamela's chamber, 
where, meaning to delight her eyes and 
joy her thoughts with the sweet conversa- 
tion of her beloved sister, she found her 
(though it were in the time that the wings 
of night do blow sleep most willingly into 
mortal creatures) sitting in a chair, lying 
backward, with her head almost over the 
back of it, and looking upon a wax candle 
which burnt before her ; in one hand hold- 
ing a letter, in the other her handkerchief, 
which had lately drunk up the tears of her 
eyes, leaving instead of them crimson cir- 
cles, like red flakes in the element, when 
the weather is hottest; which Philoclea 
finding (for her eyes had learned to know 
the badges of sorrow) she earnestly en- 
treated to know the cause thereof, that 
either she might comfort, or accompany 
her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather 
seeming sorry that she had perceived so 
much than willing to open any further ; 
" Oh my Pamela," said Philoclea, " who 
are to me a sister in nature, a mother in 
counsel, a princess by the law of the coun- 
try, andwhich name (methinks of all other) 
is the dearest, a friend by my choice and 
your favour, what means this banishing me 
from your counsels ? Do you love your 
sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it ? 
Or do you think I shall not love a sad Pa- 
mela so well as a joyful ? or be my ears 

unworthy, or my tongue suspected ? What 
is it, my sister, that you should conceal 
from your sister, yea and servant Philo- 
clea?" These words wan no further of 
Pamela, but that telling her they might 
talk better as they lay together ; they im- 
poverished their clothes to enrich their 
bed, which for that night might well scorn 
the shrine of Venus ; and there cherishing 
one another with dear, though chaste em- 
bracements; with sweet, though coldkisses; 
it might seem that Love was come to play 
him there without dart ; or that weary of 
his own fires, he was there to refresh him- 
self between their sweet breathing lips. 
But Philoclea earnestly again entreated 
Pamela to open her grief; who (drawing 
the curtain, that the candle might not com- 
plain of her blushing) was ready to speak : 
but the breath, almost formed into words, 
was again stopped by her, and turned into 
sighs. But at last, " I pray you," said she, 
" sweet Philoclea, let us talk of some other 
thing : and tell me whether did you ever 
see anything so amended as our pastoral 
sports be, since that Dorus came hither?" 
love, how far thou seest with blind eyes ! 
Philoclea had straight found her, and there- 
fore to draw out more, " Indeed," said she, 
" I have often wondered to myself how 
such excellencies could be in so mean a 
person ; but belike fortune was afraid to 
lay her treasures where they should be 
stained with so many perfections : only I 
marvel how he can frame himself to hide 
so rare gifts under such a block as Dame- 
tas." " Ah," said Pamela, " if you knew 
the cause, but, no more do I neither ; and 
to say the truth : but, how are we fallen 
to talk of this fellow ? and yet indeed if 
you were sometimes with me to mark him, 
while Dametas reads his rustick lecture 
unto him, (how to feed his beasts before 
noon, where to shade them in the extreme 
heat, how to make the manger handsome 
for his oxen, when to use the goad, and 
when the voice ; giving him rules of a 
herdman, though he pretend to make him 
a shepherd ;) to see all the while with what 
a grace (which seems to set a crown upon 
his base estate) he can descend to those 
poor matters, certainly you woidd : but to 
what serves this ? no doubt we were better 
sleep, than talk of these idle matters." 
" Ah my Pamela," said Philoclea, " I have 
caught you ; the constancy of your wit was 
not wont to bring forth such disjointed 
speeches : you love, dissemble no further." 
" It is true," said Pamela, " now you have 
it ; and with less ado should, if my heart 



could have thought those words suitable 
for my mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, 
take heed : for I think virtue itself is no 
armour of proof against affection. There- 
fore learn by my example." Alas ! thought 
Philoclea to herself, your shears come too 
late to clip the bird's wings that already 
is flown away. But then Pamela being 
once set in the stream of her love, went 
away amain, withal telling her how his 
noble qualities had drawn her liking to- 
wards him; but yet ever weighing his 
meanness, and so held continually in due 
limits. "And in the end, because you 
shall know my tears come not, neither of 
repentance nor misery, who, think you, is 
my Dorus fallen out to be ? even the Prince 
Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his 
heroical enterprises, of whom you remem- 
ber how much good the stranger Plangus 
told my father ; he not being drowned as 
Plangus thought, though his cousin Pyro- 
cles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you 
had heard his words, or seen his gestures, 
when he made me know what, and to 
whom his love was, you woidd have 
matched in yourself, those two rarely 
matched together, pity and delight. Tell 
me, dear sister, for the gods are my wit- 
nesses I desire to do virtuously, can I with- 
out the detestable stain of ungratefulness 
abstain from loving him, who, far exceed- 
ing the beautifulness of his shape with the 
beautifulness of his mind, and the great- 
ness of his estate with the greatness of Ms 
acts, is content so to abase himself, as to 
become Dametas' servant for my sake ? 
You will say, but how know I him to be 
Musidorus, since the hand-maid of wisdom 
is slow of belief ? That consideration did 
not want in me : for the nature of desire 
itself is no easier to receive belief, than it 
is hard to ground belief. For as desire is 
glad to embrace the first show of comfort, 
so is desire desirous of perfect assurance : 
and that have I had of him, not only by 
necessary arguments to any of common 
sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. 
Lastly, he woidd have me send to Thes- 
salia : but truly I am not as now in mind 
to do my honourable love so much wrong, 
as so far to suspect him : yet poor soul, 
knows he no other, but that I do both sus- 
pect, neglect, yea, and detest him. For 
every day he finds one way or other to set 
forth himself unto me, but all are rewarded 
with like coldness of acceptation. 

" A few days since, he and Dametas had 
furnished themselves very richly to run at 
the ring before me. how mad a sight 
it was to see Dametas, like rich tissue 
furr'd with lamb-skins ! But how well 
it did with Dorus, to see with what a grace 
he presented himself before me on horse- 
back, making majesty wait upon humble- 
ness ! how at the first, standing still with 
his eyes bent upon me, as though his mo- 
tions were chained to my look, he so staid 
till I caused Mopsa bid him do something 
upon his horse : which no sooner said, but 
with a land rather of quick gesture than 
show of violence, you might see him come 
towards me, beating the ground in so due 
time, as no dancer can observe better mea- 
sure. If you remember the ship we saw 
once, when the sea went high upon the 
coast of Argos, so went the beast. But 
he, as if Centaur-like he had been one 
piece with the horse, was no more moved 
than one with the going of his own legs : 
and in effect so did he command him, as 
his own limbs : for though he had both 
spurs and wand, they seemed rather marks 
of sovereigntythan instruments of punish- 
ment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing 
grace, commanding without threatening, 
and rather remembering than chastising ; 
at least if sometimes he did, it was so 
stolen, as neither our eyes could discern 
it, nor the horse with any change did com- 
plain of it : he ever going so just with the 
horse, either forthright or turning, that it 
seemed, as he borrowed the horse's body, 
so he lent the horse his mind. In the 
turning one might perceive the bridle- 
hand something gently stir: but indeed 
so gently, as it did rather distil virtue 
than use violence. Himself, which me- 
thinks is strange, showing at one instant 
both steadiness and nimbleness ; some- 
times making him turn close to the ground, 
like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels 
about after a mouse : sometimes with a 
little more rising before, now like a raven 
leaping from ridge to ridge, then like one 
of Dametas's kids bounding over the hil- 
locks : and all so done, as neither the lusty 
kind showed any roughness, nor the easier 
any idleness : but still like a w r ell-obeyed 
master, whose beck is enough for a disci- 
pline, ever concluding each thing he did 
with his face to me-wards, as if thence 
came not only the beginning but ending 
of his motions." Sir Philip Sidney. 




(For Notes of his -Life see p. 1.) 


Nothing could be more perplexing than 
this money was to me all that night. I 
carried it in my hand a good while, for it 
was in gold all hut fourteen shillings, and 
that is to say, it was four guineas, and 
that fourteen shillings was more difficult 
to carry than the four guineas. At last I 
sat down and pulled off one of my shoes, 
and put the four guineas into that ; but 
after I had gone awhile, my shoe hurt me 
so I could not go, so I was fain to sit 
down again, and take it out of my shoe 
and carry it in my hand ; then I found a 
dirty linen rag in the street, and I took that 
up ' and wrapt it altogether, and earned it 
in that a good way. I have often since 
heard people say, when they have been 
talking of money that they could not get in, 
"I wish I had it in a foul clout :" in truth, 
I had mine in a foul clout ; for it was foul, 
according to the letter of that saying, but 
it served me till I came to a convenient 
place, and then I sat down and washed the 
cloth in the kennel, and so then put my 
money in again. 

Well, I earned it home with me to my 
lodging in the glass-house', and when I 
went to go to sleep, I knew not what to 
do with it ; if I had let any of the black 
crew I was with know of it, I should have 
been smothered in the ashes for it, or rob- 
bed of it, or some trick or other put upon 
me for it ; so I knew not what to do, but 
lay with it in my hand, and my hand in 
my bosom, but then sleep went from my 
eyes. Oh, the weight of human care ! I, 
a poor beggar-boy, coidd not sleep, so soon 
as I had but a little money to keep, who, 
before that, could have slept upon a heap 
of brick-bats, stones, or cinders, or any- 
where, as sound as a rich man does on his 
down bed, and sounder too. 

Every now and then dropping asleep, I 
should dream that my money was lost, and 
start like one frightened ; then, finding it 
fast in my hand, try to go to sleep again, 
but could not for a long while, then drop 
and start again. At last a fancy came into 
my head, that if I fell asleep I should 
dream of the money and talk of it in my 

sleep, and tell that I had money ; which 
if I should do, and one of the rogues 
should hear me, they would pick it out of 
my bosom, and of my hand too, without 
waking me ; and after that thought I could 
not sleep a wink more ; so I passed that 
night over in care and anxiety enough, 
and this, I may safely say, was the first 
night's rest that I lost by the cares of this 
life and the deceitfulness of riches. 

As soon as it was day I got out of the 
hole we lay in and rambled abroad in the 
fields towards Stepney, and there I mused 
and considered what I should do with this 
money, and many a time I wished that I 
had not had it ; for, after all my rumi- 
nating upon it, and what course I should 
take with it, or where I should put it, I 
could not hit upon any one thing, or any 
possible method to secure it, and it per- 
plexed me so, that at last, as I said just 
now, I sat clown and cried heartily. 

When my crying was over, the case was 
the same ; I had the money still, and what 
to do with it I could not tell : at last it 
came into my head that I would look out 
for some hole in a tree, and see to hide it 
there till I should have occasion for it. 
Big with this discovery, as I then thought 
it, I began to look about me for a tree ; 
but there were no trees in the fields about 
Stepney or Mile-end that looked fit for my 
purpose ; and if there were any that I 
began to look narrowly at, the fields were 
so full of people, that they would see if I 
went to hide anything there, and I thought 
the people eyed me, as it were, and that 
two men in particular followed me to see 
what I intended to do. 

This drove me further off, and I crossed 
the road at Mile-end, and in the middle of 
the town went down a lane that goes away 
to the Blind Beggar's at Bethnal-green. 
When I came a little way in the lane I 
found a foot-path over the fields, and in 
those fields several trees for my turn, as I 
thought ; at last, one tree had a little hole 
in it, pretty high out of my reach, and I 
climbed up the tree to get it, and when I 
came there I put my hand in, and found, 
as I thought, a place very fit ; so I placed 
my treasure there, and was mighty well 
satisfied with it ; but, behold, putting my 



hand in again to lay it more commodi- 
ously, as I thought, of a sudden it slipped 
away from me, and I found the tree was 
hollow, and my little parcel was fallen in 
quite out of my reach, and how far it 
might go in I knew not ; so that, in a 
word, my money was quite gone, irrecover- 
ably lost ; there coidd be no room so much 
as to hope ever to see it again, for 't was a 
vast great tree. 

As young as I was, I was now sensible 
what a fool I was before, that I could not 
think of ways to keep my money, but I 
must come thus far to throw it into a hole 
where I could not reach it : well, I thrust 
my hand quite up to my elbow, but no 
bottom was to be found, or any end of the 
hole or cavity ; I got a stick of the tree, 
and thrust it in a great way, but all was 
one ; then I cried, nay, roared out, I was 
in such a passion ; then I got down the 
tree again, then up again, and thrust in 
my hand again till I scratched my arm and 
made it bleed, and cried all the while most 
violently; then I began to think I had not 
so much as a halfpenny of it left for a 
halfpenny roll, and I was hungry, and then 
I cried again : then I came away in de- 
spair, crying and roaring like a little boy 
that had been whipped ; then I went back 
again to the tree, and up the tree again, 
and thus I did several times. 

The last time I had gotten up the tree 
I happened to come down not on the same 
side that I went up and came down be- 

fore, but on the other side of the tree, and 
on the other side of the bank also ; and, 
behold, the tree had a great open place in 
the side of it close to the ground, as old 
hollow trees often have ; and looking into 
the open place, to my inexpressible joy 
there lay my money and my linen rag, all 
wrapped up just as I had put it into the 
hole : for the tree being hollow all the 
way up, there had been some moss or light 
stuff, which I had not judgement enough 
to know was not firm, that had given way 
when it came to drop out of my hand, and 
so it had slipped quite down at once. 

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a 
child, for I holla'd quite out aloud when I 
saw it ; then I ran to it and snatched it 
up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hun- 
dred times ; then danced and jumped 
about, ran from one end of the field to the 
other, and in short I knew not what, 
much less do I know now what I did, tho' 
I shall never forget the tiling, either what 
a sinking grief it was to my heart when I 
thought I had lost it, or what a flood of joy 
overwhelmed me when I had got it again. 

While I was in the first transport of my 
joy, as I have said, I ran about and knew 
not what I did ; but when that was over 
I sat down, opened the fold clout the 
money was in, looked at it, told it, fouud 
it was all there, and then I fell a-crying as 
violently as I did before, when I thought 
I had lost it. Daniel Defoe. 


Was born at Milstone in Wiltshire, on the 1st of May 1672, and after some schooling 
at his native place, at Salisbury, and at Lichfield, was sent to the Charter House, and 
in 1687 to Oxford. In 1699 he began to travel in France and Italy, and returned to 
England in 1702. The Campaign, a poem in praise of the Duke of Marlborough, 
recommended him to Lord Godolphin, and he obtained several employments under 
the Whig ministry which was dismissed in 1710. The Spectator, to which he con- 
tributed the best papers, — those marked with one of the letters of the word Clio, — was 
begun in 1/11. In 1714, on the accession of George L, he was again employed in 
political office, and in 1717 he was made Secretary of State, but soon resigned, and died 
on the 17th of June 1719, at Holland House, Kensington. 

He had remained unmarried until 1716, when he wedded the Countess Dowager 
of Warwick, who seems to have treated him as a sort of upper servant. Until his 
marriage, he passed much time, according to the uncomfortable custom of the age, 
in coffee-houses, where he was surrounded by a little knot of admirers to whom 



his word was law. Among friends his powers of conversation were unequalled, a fact 
to which Pope, whom literary jealousy, and Swift, whom party separated from him, 
bear witness, but the presence of a single stranger silenced him ; and he was unfit for 
public business, for he could neither speak in the House of Commons, nor write a 
common note with ease. As a describer of life and manners, Dr. Johnson places him 
" perhaps first in the first rank ;" and this high praise belongs to Addison, that, at a time 
when such an example was much needed, he used his powers of wit and humour on 
the side of morality and religion, and to correct the flippant impertinence towards 
women which had prevailed among the wits since the Restoration. His style is pure 
and easy ; — " whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and 
elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addi* 
son," — these are the words of Dr. Johnson. 

Three papers of Addison have been taken from the Spectator for this work. The 
Vision of Mirza is perfect in its kind, and the paper on the Indian Kings is one of the 
earliest instances of writing in the character of a foreigner. The design and hints for 
the latter had been given by Dean Swift to Sir Richard Steele for the Tatler. In 
the journal to Stella, 28th of April 1711, Swift writes : — " The Spectator is written by 
Steele with Addison's help ; 't is often very pretty. Yesterdayit was made of a noble 
hint I gave him long ago for his Tatlers about an Indian supposed to write his 
travels into England. I repent he ever had it. I intended to have written a book on 
that subject. I believe he has spent it all in one paper, and all the under hints are 
mine too." 


When the four Indian kings were in 
this country about a twelvemonth ago, I 
often mixed with the rabble, and followed 
them a whole day together, being wonder- 
fully struck with the sight of everything 
that is new or uncommon. I have since 
their departure employed a friend to make 
many inquiries of their landlord the up- 
holsterer relating to their manners and 
conversation, as also concerning the re- 
marks which they made in this country : 
for, next to the forming a right notion of 
such strangers, I should be desirous of 
learning what ideas they have conceived 
of us. 

The upholsterer finding my friend very 
inquisitive about his lodgers, brought him 
some time since a little bundle of papers, 
which he assured him were written by 
king Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow, and as 
he supposes, left behind by some mistake. 
These papers are now translated, and con- 
tain abundance of very odd observations, 
which I find this little fraternity of kings 
made during their stay in the island of 
Great Britain. I shall present my reader 
with a short specimen of them in this 
paper, and may perhaps communicate 
more to him hereafter. In the article of 
London are the following words, which 

without doubt are meant of the church of 
St. Paul. 

" On the most rising part of the town 
there stands a huge house, big enough to 
contain the whole nation of which I am 
king. Our good brother E Tow O Koam, 
king of the Rivers, is of opinion it was 
made by the hands of that great God to 
whom it is consecrated. The kings of 
Granajah and of the Six Nations believe 
that it was created with the earth, and 
produced on the same day with the sun 
and moon. But for my own part, by the 
best information that I could get of this 
matter, I am apt to think that this prodi- 
gious pile was fashioned into the shape it 
now bears by several tools and instruments, 
of which they have a w r onderful variety in 
this country. It was probably at first a 
huge misshapen rock that grew upon the 
top of the hill, which the natives of the 
country (after having cut into a kind of 
regular figure) bored and hollow r ed with 
incredible pains and industry 'till they had 
wrought in it all those beautiful vaults 
and caverns into which it is divided at this 
day. As soon as this rock was thus curi- 
ously scooped to their liking, a prodigious 
number of hands must have been employed 
in chipping the outside of it, which is now 
as smooth as the surface of a pebble ; and 
is in several places hewn out into pillars 



that stand like the trunks of so many trees 
bound about the top with garlands of 
leaves. It is probable that when this 
great work was begun, which must have 
been many hundred years ago, there was 
some religion among this people ; for they 
give it the name of a temple, and have a 
tradition that it was designed for men to 
pay their devotions in. And indeed there 
are several reasons which make us think 
that the natives of this country had for- 
merly among them some sort of worship ; 
for they set apart every seventh day as 
sacred. But upon my going into one of 
these holy houses on that day, I coidd not 
observe any circumstance of devotion in 
their behaviour. There was indeed a man 
in black, who was mounted above the rest, 
and seemed to utter something with a 
great deal of vehemence ; but as for those 
underneath him, instead of paying their 
worship to the deity of the place, they 
were most of them bowing and curtseying 
to one another, and a considerable num- 
ber of them fast asleep. 

"The queen of the country appointed two 
men to attend us, that had enough of our 
language to make themselves understood 
in some few particulars. But we soon 
perceived these two were great enemies to 
one another, and did not always agree in 
the same story. We could make shift to 
gather out of one of them, that this island 
was very much infested with a monstrous 
kind of animals, in the shape of men, 
called whigs ; and he often told us, that 
he hoped we should meet with none of 
them in our way, for that if we did, they 
would be apt to knock us down for being 

" Our other interpreter used to talk very 
much of a kind of animal called a tory, 
that was as great a monster as the whig, 
and would treat us as ill for being foreign- 
ers. These two creatures, it seems, are 
born with a secret antipathy to one an- 
other, and engage when they meet as na- 
turally as the elephant and the rhinoceros. 
I But as we saw none of either of these 
species, we are apt to think that our guides 
deceived us with misrepresentations and 
fictions, and amused us with an account 
of such monsters as are not really in their 

" These particulars we made a shift to I 
pick out from the discourse of our inter- j 
preters ; which we put together as well as j 
we could, being able to understand but i 
here and there a word of what they said, 
and afterwards making up the meaning of 

it among ourselves. The men of the coun- 
try are very cunning and ingenious in 
handicraft works, but withal so very idle, 
that we often saw young lusty raw-boned 
fellows earned up and down the streets 
in little covered rooms by a couple of 
porters, who were hired for that service. 
j Then- dress is likewise very barbarous, for 
i they almost strangle themselves about the 
j neck, and bind their bodies with several 
ligatures, that we are apt to think are the 
occasion of several distempers among them, 
which our country is entirely free from. 
Instead of those beautiful feathers with 
which we adorn our heads, they often buy 
up a monstrous bush of hair, which covers 
their heads, and falls down in a large fleece 
below the middle of their backs ; and with 
which they walk up and down the streets, 
and are as proud of it as if it was of their 
own growth. 

" We were invited to one of their public 
diversions, where we hoped to have seen 
the great men of their country running 
down a stag, or pitching a bar, that we 
might have discovered who were the per- 
sons of the greatest abilities among them ; 
but instead of that, they conveyed us into 
a huge room lighted up with abundance 
of candles, where this lazy people sat still 
above three hours to see several feats of 
ingenuity performed by others, who it 
seems were paid for it. 

" As for the women of the country, not 

being able to talk with them, we coidd 

only make our remarks upon them at a 

I distance. They let the hair of their heads 

' grow to a great length ; but as the men 

! make a great show with heads of hair that 

are none of their own, the women, who 

they say have very fine heads of hah, tie 

it up in a knot and cover it from being 

I seen. The women look like angels, and 

1 would be more beautiful than the sun, 

I were it not for little black spots that are 

i apt to break out in their faces, and some- 

! times rise in very odd figures. I have ob- 

i served that those little blemishes wear off 

very soon; but when they disappear in 

one part of the face they are very apt to 

break out in another, insomuch that I 

have seen a spot upon the forehead in the 

afternoon which was upon the chin in the 


The author then proceeds to show the 
absurdity of breeches and petticoats, with 
many other curious observations, which I 
shall reserve for another occasion. I can- 
not, however, conclude this paper without 
taking notice, that amidst these wild re- 




marks there now and then appears some- 
thing very reasonable. I cannot likewise 
forbear observing, that we are all guilty in 
some measure of the same narrow way of 
thinking which we meet with in this abs- 
I tract of the Indian journal, when we 
j fancy the customs, dresses and manners 
of other countries are ridiculous and ex- 
| travagant, if they do not resemble those 
of our own. Joseph Addison. 


On the fifth day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, 
I always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devo- 
tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer. As I was here 
airing myself on the tops of the moun- 
tains, I fell into a profound contempla- 
tion on the vanity of human life ; and 
passing from one thought to another, 
" surely," said I, " Man is but a shadow, 
and life a dream." Whilst I was thus 
musing, I cast my eyes towards the sum- 
mit of a rock that was not far from me, 
where I discovered one in the habit of a 
shepherd, with a little musical instrument 
in his hand. As I looked upon him he 
applied it to his lips, and began to play 
upon it. The sound of it was exceeding 
sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes 
that were inexpressibly melodious, and al- 
together different from any thing I had 
ever heard. They put me in mind of those 
heavenly airs that are played to the de- 
parted souls of good men upon their first 
arrival in Paradise, to wear out the im- 
pressions of the last agonies, and qualify 
them for the pleasures of that happy place. 
My heart melted away in secret raptures. 

I had been often told that the rock 
before me was the haunt of a genius ; 
and that several had been entertained 
with music who had passed by it, but 
never heard that the musician had before 
made himself visible. When he had raised 
my thoughts by those transporting airs 
which he played, to taste the pleasures of 
his conversation, as I looked upon him 
like one astonished, he beckoned to me, 
and by the waving of his hand directed 
me to approach the place where he sat. I 
drew near with that reverence which is 
due to a superior nature ; and as my heart 
was entirely subdued by the captivating 

strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet 
and wept. The genius smiled upon me 
with a look of compassion and affability 
that familiarized him to my imagination, 
and at once dispelled all the fears and ap- 
prehensions with which I approached him. 
He lifted me from the ground, and taking 
me by the hand, " Mirza," said he, " I 
have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle 
of the rock, and placing me on the top of 
it, " cast thy eyes eastward," said he, " and 
tell me what thou seest." " I see," said 
I, " a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of 
water rolling through it." " The valley 
that thou seest," said he, " is the Vale of 
Misery, and the tide of water that thou 
seest is part of the great tide of eternity." 
" What is the reason," said I, " that the 
tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one 
end, and again loses itself in a thick mist 
at the other ?" " What thou seest," said 
he, " is that portion of eternity which is 
called time, measured out by the sun, and 
reaching from the beginning of the world 
to its consummation. Examine now," said 
he, " this sea that is bounded with dark- 
ness at both ends, and tell me what thou 
discoverest in it." " I see a bridge," said 
I, " standing in the midst of the tide." 
" The bridge thou seest," said he, " is 
human life, consider it attentively." Upon 
a more leisurely survey of it, I found that 
it consisted of threescore and ten entire 
arches, with several broken arches, which 
added to those that were entire, made up 
the number about a hundred. As I was 
counting the arches, the genius told me 
that this bridge consisted at first of a 
thousand arches; but that a great flood 
swept away the rest, and left the bridge 
in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 
" But tell me further," said he, " what 
thou discoverest on it." " I see multi- 
tudes of people passing over it," said I, 
" and a black cloud hanging on each end 
of it." As I looked more attentively, I 
saw several of the passengers dropping 
through the bridge into the great tide that 
flowed underneath it ; and upon farther 
examination, perceived there were innu- 
merable trap-doors that lay concealed in 
the bridge, which the passengers no sooner 
trod upon but they fell through them into 
the tide and immediately disappeared. 
These hidden pit-falls were set very thick 
at the entrance of the bridge, so that 
throngs of people no sooner broke through 
the cloud but many of them fell into them. 



They grew thinner towards the middle, 
but multiplied and lay closer together to- 
wards the end of the arches that were 

There were indeed some persons, but 
their number was very small, that con- 
tinued a kind of hobbling march on the 
broken arches, but fell through one after 
another, being quite tired and spent with 
so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contempla- 
tion of this wonderful structure, and the 
great variety of objects which it presented. 
My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, 
to see several dropping unexpectedly in the 
midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at 
every thing that stood by them to save 
themselves. Some were looking up towards 
heaven in a thoughtful posture, and in the 
midst of a speculation stumbled and fell 
out of sight. Multitudes were very busy 
in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in 
then- eyes and danced before them ; but 
often when they thought themselves with- 
in the reach of them, their footing failed 
and down they sank. In this confusion of 
objects, I observed some with scimitars in 
their hands, and others with urinals, who 
ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting 
several persons on trap-doors which did 
not seem to he in their way, and which 
they might have escaped had they not 
been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indidge myself on 
this melancholy prospect, told me I had 
dwelt long enough upon it. " Take thine 
eyes off the bridge," said he, " and tell me 
if thou yet seest anything thou dost not 
comprehend." Upon looking up, " What 
mean," said I, " those great flights of 
birds that are perpetually hovering about 
the bridge, and settling upon it from time 
to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, 
cormorants, and among many other fea- 
thered creatures, several httle winged 
boys, that perch in great numbers upon 
the middle arches." " These," said the 
genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, 
Despair, Love, with the like cares and 
passions that infest human life." 

I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas," 
said I, " man was made in vain ! How is 
he given away to misery and mortality ! 
tortured in life, and swallowed up in 
death !" The genius being moved with 
compassion towards me, bid me quit so 
uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no 
more," said he, " on man in the first stage 
of his existence, in his setting out for 
eternitv ; but cast thine eye on that thick 

mist into which the tide bears the several 
generations of mortals that fall into it." 
I directed my sight as I was ordered, and 
(whether or no the good genius strength- 
ened it with any supernatural force, or 
dissipated part of the mist that was be- 
fore too thick for the eye to penetrate) I 
saw the valley opening at the farther end, 
and spreading forth into an immense 
ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant 
running through the midst of it, and di- 
viding it into two equal parts. The clouds 
still rested on one half of it, insomuch 
that I could discover nothing in it ; but 
the other appeared to me a vast ocean 
planted with innumerable islands, that 
were covered with fruits and flowers, and 
interwoven with a thousand httle shining 
seas that ran among them. I could see 
persons dressed in glorious habits with 
garlands upon their heads, passing among 
the trees, lying down by the sides of foun- 
tains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and 
could hear a confused harmony of singing 
birds, falling waters, human voices, and 
musical instruments. Gladness grew in 
me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an 
eagle, that I might fly away to those 
happy seats ; but the genius told me there 
was no passage to them, except through 
the gates of death that I saw opening 
every moment upon the bridge. " The 
islands," said he, " that he so fresh and 
green before thee, and with which the 
whole face of the ocean appears spotted 
as far as thou canst see, are more in 
number than the sands on the sea shore ; 
there are myriads of islands behind those 
which thou here discoverest, reaching far- 
ther than thine eye, or even thine ima- 
gination can extend itself. These are the 
mansions of good men after death, who, 
according to the degree and kinds of virtue 
in which they excelled, are distributed 
among these several islands, which abound 
with pleasures of different kinds and de- 
grees, suitable to the rehshes and per- 
fections of those wiio are settled in them ; 
every island is a Paradise accommodated 
to its respective inhabitants. Are not 
these, Mirza, habitations worth con- 
tending for ? Does life appear miserable, 
that gives thee opportunities of earning 
such a reward? Is death to be feared, 
that will convey thee to so happy an 
existence ? Think not man was made in 
vain, who has such an eternity reserved 
for him." I gazed with inexpressible plea- 
sure on these happy islands. At length, 



said I, " show me now, I beseech thee, 
the secrets that lie hid under those dark 
clouds which cover the ocean on the other 
side of the rock of adamant." The genius 
making me no answer, I turned me about 
to address myself to him a second time, 
but I found that he had left me ; I then 
turned again to the vision which I had 
been so long contemplating ; but instead 
of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and 
the happy islands, I saw nothing but the 
long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, 
sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides 
of it. Joseph Addison. 


"We last night received a piece of ill 
news at our club, which very sensibly 
afflicted every one of us. I question not 
but my readers themselves will be troubled 
at the hearing of it. To keep them no 
longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley 
is dead. He departed this life at his house 
in the country, after a few weeks' sick- 
ness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter 
from one of his correspondents in those 
parts, that informs him the old man 
caught a cold at the county sessions, as he 
was very warmly promoting an address of 
his own penning, in which he succeeded 
according to his wishes. But this par- 
ticular comes from a whig justice of peace, 
who was always Sir Roger's enemy and 
antagonist. I have letters both from the 
chaplain and captain Sentiy, which men- 
tion nothing of it, but are filled with 
many particulars to the honour of the 
good old man. I have bkewise a letter 
from the butler, who took so much care 
of me last summer when I was at the 
knight's house. As my friend the butler 
mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, 
several circumstances the others have 
passed over in silence, I shall give my 
reader a copy of his letter, without any 
alteration or diminution. 

" Honoured Sir, — Knowing that you was 
my old master's good friend, I could not 
forbear sending you the melancholy news 
of his death, which has afflicted the whole 
country, as well as his poor servants, who 
loved him, I may say, better than we did 
our lives. I am afraid he caught his death 
the last county sessions, where he would 
go to see justice done to a poor widow 
woman, and her fatherless children, that 

had been wronged by a neighbouring gen- 
tleman ; for you know, sir, my good master 
was always the poor man's friend. Upon 
his coming home, the first complaint he 
made was, that he had lost his roast-beef 
stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, 
which was served up according to custom ; 
and you know he used to take great de- 
light in it. From that time forward he 
grew worse and worse, but still kept a 
good heart to the last. Indeed we were 
once in great hopes of his recovery, upon 
a kind message that was sent him from 
the widow lady whom he had made love 
to the forty last years of his life ; but this 
only proved a lightning before death. He 
has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of 
his love, a great pearl necklace, and a 
couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, 
which belonged to my good old lady his 
mother. He has bequeathed the fine 
white gelding that he used to ride a 
hunting upon to his chaplain, because he 
thought he would be kind to him ; and 
has left you all his books. He has, more- 
over, bequeathed to the chaplain a very 
pretty tenement with good lands about it. 
It being a very cold day when he made 
his will, he left for mourning to every 
man in the parish a great frieze-coat, and 
to every woman a black riding hood. It 
was a most moving sight to see him take 
leave of his poor servants, commending 
us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not 
able to speak a word, for weeping. As we 
most of us are grown grey-headed in our 
dear master's service, he has left us pen- 
sions and legacies, which w T e may live very 
comfortably upon the remaining part of 
our days. He has bequeathed a great 
deal more in charity, which is not yet 
come to my knowledge, and it is pe- 
remptorily said in the parish, that lie has 
left money to build a steeple to the church ; 
for he w T as heard to say some time ago, 
that, if he lived two years longer, Cover- 
ley church should Lave a steeple to it. 
The chaplain tells everybody that he 
made a very good end, and never speaks 
of him without tears. He was buried, 
according to his own directions, among 
the family of the Coverleys, on the left- 
hand of his father Sir Arthur. The coffin 
was carried by six of his tenants, and the 
pall held up by six of the quorum. The 
whole parish followed the corpse with 
heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits ; 
the men in frieze, and the women in 
riding hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's 
nephew, has taken possession of the Hall- 



house, and the whole estate. When my 
old master saw him a little before his 
death, he shook him by the hand, and 
wished him joy of the estate which was 
falling to him, desiring him only to make 
a good use of it, and to pay the several 
legacies, and the gifts of charity, which 
he told him he had left as quit-rents upon 
the estate. The captain truly seems a cour- 
teous man, though he says but little. He 
makes much of those whom my master 
loved, and shows great kindnesses to the 
old house-dog, that you know my poor 
master was so fond of. It would have 
gone to your heart to have heard the 
moans the dumb creature made on the 
day of my master's death. He has never 
enjoyed himself since ; no more has any 
of us. It was the melancholiest day for 
the poor people that ever happened in 
Worcestershire. This being all from, 
" Honoured Sir, 
" Your most sorrowful servant, 

" Edward Biscuit." 

" P.S. My master desired, some weeks 
before he died, that a book, which comes 
up to you by the carrier, should be given 
to Sir Andrew Freeport in his name.'' 

This letter, notwithstanding the poor 
butler's manner of writing it, gave us such 
! an idea of our good old friend, that upon 
j the reading of it there was not a dry eye 
in the club. Sir Andrew, opening the 
book, found it to be a collection of acts of 
| parliament. There was in particular the 
I Act of Uniformity, with some passages in 
{ it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir 
I Andrew found that they related to two or 
three points which he had disputed with 
Sir Roger, the last time he appeared at the 
club. Sir Andrew, who would have been 
merry at such an incident on another occa- 
sion, at the sight of the old man's hand- 
writing burst into tears, and put the book 
into his pocket. Captain Sentry informs 
me that the knight has left rings and 
mourning for every one in the club. 

Joseph Addison. 


Was born on the 29th of November 1728, at Pallas in the county of Longford in Ire- 
land, and after being at school at Edgeworths-town was sent in June, 1744, as a sizer, 
to Dublin College, and in 1752 to Edinburgh to study medicine. In 1754, a love of 
wandering led him to make a walking tour through Flanders, France, Germany, Swit- 
zerland, and Italy, getting food and lodging sometimes in return for the music of his 
fiddle, and sometimes from the hospitality of universities and convents. He came 
back to England in 1756, and after seeking a livelihood as an usher at a school in 
Peckham, — as a shopman to a chemist, — and as a physician with many patients but 
no fees, he betook himself to writing in magazines and reviews. In 1761 he be- 
came acquainted with Dr. Johnson, wiio was always his fast friend. The publication 
of The Traveller gave him a name, and that poem was followed by The Vicar of 
Wakefield, which had been previously written, — The Good-Natured Man, and She 
Stoops to Conquer, comedies, — The Deserted Village, — Histories of Greece, Rome, 
and England, — A History of the Earth and Animated Nature, — and other works. He 
died on the 4th of April 1774, was buried in the burial-ground of the Temple, and 
has a monument in Westminster Abbey. 

He was a good-natured generous man, simple and credulous, and wore Ms heart 
upon his sleeve, vain, and with as much of envy as must belong to vanity, but with- 
out a grain of malignity. He wanted firmness and common prudence, and was there- 
fore for ever in trouble. His character may be read in Boswell's Life of Johnson, 
in which BosweU treats him with a very amusing air of superiority. 

He wrote poetry with great care, and employed much labour in polishing, often 
leaving not a word as first written. His poems are harmonious and elegant, few are 
so often read or quoted. His easy, graceful prose Avas written fluently and without 



revision. His best work, The Vicar of Wakefield, from which the following extracts 
have been made, is perhaps as popular, both in England and abroad, as any book in 
our language ; it is a picture of common life portraying men with their common 
virtues and faults in simple words, and with an arch simplicity in which no English 
writer has approached him. 


I was ever of opinion, that the honest 
man who married and brought up a large 
family, did more service than he who con- 
tinued single, and only talked of popula- 
tion. From this motive, I had scarce taken 
orders a year, before I began to think seri- 
ously of matrimony, and chose my wife as 
she did her wedding gown, not for a fine 
glossy surface, but such quahties as would 
wear well. To do her justice, she was a 
good-natured notable woman ; and as for 
breeding, there were few country ladies 
who could show more. She could read 
any English book without much spelling ; 
but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, 
none could excel her. She prided herself 
also upon being an excellent contriver in 
house-keeping ; though I could never find 
that we grew richer with all her con- 

However, we loved each other tenderly, 
and our fondness increased as we grew 
old. There was in fact nothing that could 
make us angry with the world, or each 
other. We had an elegant house, situated 
in a fine country, and a good neighbour- 
hood. The year was spent in moral or 
rural amusement ; in visiting our rich 
neighbours, and relieving such as were 
poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor 
fatigues to undergo; all our adventures 
were by the fireside, and all our migrations 
from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had 
the traveller or stranger visit us to taste 
our gooseberry wine, for which we had 
great reputation ; and I profess, with the 
veracity of an historian, that I never knew 
one of them find fault with it. Our cou- 
sins too, even to the fortieth remove, all 
remembered their affinity, without any 
help from the heralds' office, and came 
very frequently to see us. Some of them 
did us no great honour by these claims of 
kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, 
and the halt, amongst the number. How- 
ever, my wife always insisted that as they 
were the same flesh and blood, they should 
sit with us at the same table. So that if 
we had not very rich, we generally had 

very happy friends about us ; for this re- 
mark will hold good through life, that the 
poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever 
is with being treated ; and as some men 
gaze with admiration at the colours of a 
tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was 
by nature an admirer of happy human 

Thus we lived several years in a state of 
much happiness, not but that we some- 
times had those little rubs which Provi- 
dence sends to enhance the value of its 
favours. My orchard was often robbed by 
school-boys, and my wife's custards plun- 
dered by the cats or the children. The 
squire would sometimes fall asleep in the 
most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his 
lady return my wife's civilities at church 
with a mutilated curtsey. But we soon 
got over the uneasiness caused by such 
accidents, and usually in three or four days 
began to wonder how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temper- 
ance, as they were educated without soft- 
ness, so they were at once well-formed and 
healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my 
daughters beautiful and blooming. When 
I stood in the midst of the little circle, 
which promised to be the supports of my 
declining age, I could not avoid repeating 
the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, 
in Henry II.'s progress through Germany, 
while other courtiers came with their trea- 
sures, brought his thirty-two children, and 
presented them to his sovereign as the 
most valuable offering he had to bestow. 
Oliver Goldsmith. 


The place of our retreat was in a little 
neighbourhood, consisting of farmers who 
tilled their own grounds, and were equal 
strangers to opulence and poverty. As 
they had almost all the conveniences of life 
within themselves, they seldom visited 
towns or cities in search of superfluities. 
Remote from the polite, they still retained 
the primaeval simplicity of manners ; and 



frugal by habit, they scarce knew that tem- 
perance was a virtue. They wrought with 
cheerfulness on days of labour ; but ob- 
served festivals as intervals of idleness and 
pleasure. They kept up the Christmas 
carol, sent true-love-knots on Valentine 
morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, 
showed their wit on the 1st of April, and 
religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas 
eve. Being apprized of our approach, the 
whole neighbourhood came out to meet 
theh minister, dressed in their fine clothes, 
and preceded by a pipe and tabor : a feast 
also was provided for our reception, at 
which we sate cheerfully down ; and what 
the conversation wanted in wit, was made 
up in laughter. 

Our httle habitation was situated at the 
foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beau- 
tiful underwood behind, and a prattling 
river before ; on one side a meadow, on 
the other a green. My farm consisted of 
about twenty acres of excellent land, having 
given a hundred pounds for my predeces- 
sor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed the 
neatness of my little enclosures : the elms 
and hedge-rows appearing with inexpres- 
sible beauty. My house consisted of but 
one story, and was covered with thatch, 
which gave it an air of great snugness ; 
the walls on the inside were nicely white- 
washed, and my daughters undertook to 
adorn them with pictures of their own de- 
signing. Though the same room served 
us for parlour and kitchen, that only made 
it the w T armer. Besides, as it was kept 
with the utmost neatness, the dishes, 
plates, and coppers, being well scoured, 
and all disposed in bright rows on the 
shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, 
and did not want richer furniture. There 
were three other apartments ; one for my 
wife and me, another for our two daugh- 
ters, within our own ; and the third, with 
two beds, for the rest of the children. 

The httle republic to which I gave laws, 
was regulated in the following manner : 
by sun-rise we all assembled in our com- 
mon apartment ; the fire being previously 
kindled by the servant. After we had sa- 
luted each other with proper ceremony, for 
I always thought fit to keep up some me- 
chanical forms of good breeding, without 
which freedom ever destroys friendship, 
we all bent in gratitude to that Being who 
gave us another day. This duty being 
performed, my son and I went to pursue 
our usual industry abroad, while my wife 
and daughters employed themselves in pro- 
viding breakfast, which was always ready 

at a certain time. I allowed half an hour 
for this meal, and an hour for dinner; 
wdiich time was taken up in innocent 
mirth between my wife and daughters, and 
in philosophical arguments between my 
son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never 
pursued our labour after it was gone down, 
but returned home to the expecting family; 
where smihng looks, a neat hearth, and 
pleasant fire, were prepared for our recep- 
tion. Nor were we without guests : some- 
times farmer Flamborough, our talkative 
neighbour, and often the blind piper, 
would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
berry wine ; for the making of which we 
had lost neither the receipt nor the repu- 
tation. These harmless people had seve- 
ral ways of being good company; while 
one played, the other would sing some 
soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last 
good-night, or, The Cruelty of Barbara 
Allen. The night w r as concluded in the 
manner we began the morning, my young- 
est boys being appointed to read the les- 
sons of the day, and he that read loudest, 
distinctest and best, was to have a half- 
penny on Sunday to put into the poor's 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day 
of finery, which all my sumptuary edicts 
could not restrain. How well soever I 
fancied my lectures against pride had con- 
quered the vanity of my daughters, yet I 
still found them secretly attached to all 
their former finery ; they still loved laces, 
ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife her- 
self retained a passion for her crimson pa- 
duasoy, because I formerly happened to say 
it became her. 

The first Sunday in particular their be- 
haviour served to mortify me ; I had de- 
sired my girls the preceding night to be 
dressed early the next day, for I always 
loved to be at chinch a good while before 
the rest of the congregation. They punc- 
tually obeyed my directions, but when we 
were to assemble in the morning at break- 
fast, down came my wife and daughters, 
dressed out in aU their former splendour, 
then* hah plaistered up with pomatum, 
their faces patched to taste, their trains 
bundled up into a heap behind, and rust- 
ling at eveiy motion. I could not help 
smihng at their vanity, particularly that of 
my wife, from whom I expected more dis- 
cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my 
only resource was, to order my son, with 
an important air, to call our coach. The 
girls were amazed at the command ; but I 




repeated it with more solemnity than be- 
fore. " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried 
my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well ; 
we want no coach to carry us now." 
"You mistake, child," returned I, "we 
do want a coach ; for if we walk to church 
in this trim, the very children in the parish 
will hoot after us." " Indeed," replied 
my wife, " I always imagined that my 
Charles was fond of seeing his children 
neat and handsome about him." " You 
maybe as neat as you please," interrupted 
I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; 
but all this is not neatness, but frippery. 
These rufflings, and pinkings, and patch- 
ings, will only make us hated by all the 
wives of our neighbours. No, my chil- 
dren," continued I, more gravely, " those 
gowns may be altered into something of a 

plainer cut, for finery is very unbecoming 
in us, who want the means of decency. I 
do not know whether such flouncing and 
shredding is becoming even in the rich, if 
we consider, upon a moderate calculation, 
that the nakedness of the indigent world 
may be clothed from the trimmings of the 

This remonstrance had the proper effect; 
they went with great composure, that very 
instant, to change their dress; and the 
next day I had the satisfaction of finding 
my daughters, at their own request, em- 
ployed in cutting up their trains into Sun- 
day waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two 
little ones ; and what w T as still more satis- 
factory, the gowns seemed improved by 
this curtailing:. Oliver Goldsmith. 


Was born at Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771 ; he was weakly in childhood, 
and though he grew up into health and strength, was lame through life. From 1779 
to 1783 he was at the high school of Edinburgh, and remarkable only for courage. 
In 1783 he entered the University of Edinburgh as a student of law, and was pro- 
nounced there to be a dunce. The state of his health in early life prevented regular 
study, and sometimes confined him to his bed : cut off from other amusements, he be- 
came, as he says, a glutton of books, reading romances, old plays, poetry, history, and 
voyages without stint. In 1805 he published The Lay of the Last Minstrel, in 1808 
Marmion, and between that year and 1815 other poems. In 1814 Waverley, the 
earliest of his novels, appeared, and then, abandoning poetry, he poured forth the 
Waverley novels in rapid succession, but did not acknowledge himself to be their au- 
thor, though he was soon suspected, and after no long time generally believed to be 
so. In 1820 he was created a baronet by George IV. The aim of his life was to 
create a landed estate, and making too great haste to be rich, lie became involved, as 
a partner, with printers and publishers, who failed in 1826, when the authorship of 
the Waverley novels could no longer be kept secret. Scott refused to set himself 
free from debt by a bankruptcy. In two years, by literary labour, he earned for his 
creditors £40,000. He continued to write down to 1831, but the powers of his mind 
were overtasked, and he sunk. He died on the 21st of September 1832; his debts 
were afterwards paid in full, and his estate at Abbotsford having been settled on his 
son's marriage, was preserved. 

The popularity of his poetry on its first appearance was very great, but he will not 
stand in the first rank of English poets. His poems are tales of chivalry, full of life, 
especially in the battle scenes. As a writer of novels he will always stand among the 
first. The stores which his early and his later reading had accumulated, and the inti- 
mate acquaintance that he had with every variety of human life, provided materials 
which his quick and discriminating observation, wonderful memory, strong fellow-feel- 
ing with all classes and conditions of men, manly common sense, good-humoured 



ridicule, and unrivalled power of description employed with such wonderful effect. 
If he had not creative genius in the highest degree, no one could work slight and 
coarse material into forms so substantial and beautiful. 

Three of the pieces which foUow are from The Bride of Lammermoor, the best 
of his novels ; another, The Walk by the Sands, is from The Antiquary ; and the re- 
maining one, from Peveril of the Peak. 


The knight and his daughter left the 
high-road, and following a wandering path 
among sandy hillocks, partly grown over 
with furze and the long grass called bent, 
soon attained the side of the ocean. The 
tide was by no means so far out as they 
had computed; but this gave them no 
alarm ; there were seldom ten days in the 
year when it approached so near the cliffs 
as not to leave a dry passage. But ne- 
vertheless, at periods of spring-tide, or 
even when the ordinary flood was accele- 
rated by high winds, this road was alto- 
gether covered by the sea ; and tradition 
had recorded several fatal accidents which 
had happened on such occasions. Still 
such dangers were considered as remote 
and improbable ; and rather served, with 
other legends, to amuse the hamlet fire- 
side than to prevent any one from going 
between Knockwinnock and Monkbarns 
by the sands. 

As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced 
along, enjoying the pleasant footing af- 
forded by the cool moist hard sand, Miss 
Wardour could not help observing that 
the last tide had risen considerably above 
the usual water-mark. Sir Arthur made 
the same observation, but without its oc- 
curring to either of them to be alarmed at 
the circumstance. 

The sun was now resting his huge disk 
upon the edge of the level ocean, and 
gilded the accumulation of towering clouds 
through which he had travelled the live- 
long day, and which now assembled on 
all sides, like misfortunes and disasters 
around a sinking empire and falling mo- 
narch. Still, however, his dying splen- 
dour gave a sombre magnificence to the 
massive congregation of vapours, forming 
out of their unsubstantial gloom, the show 
of p)Tamids and towers, some touched 
with gold, some with purple, some with a 
hue of deep and dark red. The distant 
sea, stretched beneath this varied and gor- 
geous canopy, lay almost portentously still, 
reflecting back the dazzling and* level 
beams of the descending luminary, and 
the splendid colouring of the clouds amidst 

which he was setting. Nearer to the 
beach the tide rippled onward in waves of 
sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet 
rapidly gained upon the sand. 

With a mind employed in admiration of 
the romantic scene, or perhaps on some 
more agitating topic, Miss Wardour ad- 
vanced in silence by her father's side, 
whose recently offended dignity did not 
stoop to open any conversation. Follow- 
ing the windings of the beach, they passed 
one projecting point or headland of rock 
after another, and now found themselves 
under a huge and continued extent of the 
precipices by which that iron-bound coast 
is in most places defended. Long pro- 
jecting reefs of rock, extending under 
water, and only evincing their existence 
by here and there a peak entirely bare, or 
by the breakers which foamed over those 
that were partially covered, rendered 
Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and 
ship-masters. The crags which rose be- 
tween the beach and the main land, to the 
height of two or three hundred feet, af- 
forded in their crevices shelter for unnum- 
bered sea-fowl, in situations seemingly 
secured by their dizzy height from the 
rapacity of man. Many of these wild 
tribes, with the instinct which sends them 
to seek the land before a storm arises, 
were now winging towards their nests 
with the shrill and dissonant clang which 
announces disquietude and fear. The disk 
of the sun became almost totally obscured 
ere he had altogether sunk below the 
horizon, and an early and lurid shade of 
darkness blotted the serene twilight of a 
summer evening. The wind began next 
to arise ; but its wild and moaning sound 
was heard for some time, and its effects 
became visible on the bosom of the sea, 
before the gale was felt on shore. The 
mass of waters, now dark and threatening, 
began to lift itself in larger ridges, and 
sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that 
rose high in foam upon the breakers, or 
burst upon the beach with a sound resem- 
bling distant thunder. 

Appalled by this sudden change of wea- 
ther, Miss Wardour drew close to her 
father and held his arm fast. " I wish," 



at length she said, hut almost in a whis- 
per, as if ashamed to express her increa- 
sing apprehensions, " I wish we had kept 
the road we intended, or waited at Monk- 
barns for the carriage." 

Sir Arthur looked round, but did not 
see, or would not acknowledge, any signs 
of an immediate storm. They would reach 
Knockwinnock, he said, long before the 
tempest began. But the speed with which 
he walked, and with which Isabella could 
hardly keep pace, indicated a feeling that 
some exertion was necessary to accom- 
plish his consolatory prediction. 

They were now near the centre of a 
deep but narrow bay or recess, formed by 
two projecting capes of high and inacces- 
sible rock, which shot out into the sea like 
the horns of a crescent ; and neither durst 
communicate the apprehension which each 
began to entertain, that, from the un- 
usually rapid advance of the tide, they 
might be deprived of the power of pro- 
ceeding by doubling the promontory which 
lay before them, or of retreating by the 
road which brought them thither. 

As they thus pressed forward, longing 
doubtless to exchange the easy curving 
line which the sinuosities of the bay com- 
pelled them to adopt for a straighter and 
more expeditious path, though less con- 
formable to the line of beauty, Sir Arthur 
observed a human figure on the beach ad- 
vancing to meet them. 

"•Thank God," he exclaimed, " we 
shall get round Halket-head ! that person 
must have passed it ;" thus giving vent to 
the feeling of hope, though he had sup- 
pressed that of apprehension. 

"Thank God, indeed 1" echoed his 
daughter, half audibly, half internally, as 
expressing the gratitude which she strong- 
ly felt. 

The figure which advanced to meet them 
made many signs, which the haze of the 
atmosphere, now disturbed by wind and 
by a drizzling rain, prevented them from 
seeing or comprehending distinctly. Some 
time before they met, Sir Arthur could 
recognise the old blue-gowned beggar, 
Edie Ochiltree. It is said that even the 
brute creation lay aside their animosities 
and antipathies when pressed by an instant 
and common danger. The beach under 
Halket-head rapidly diminishing in extent 
by the encroachments of a spring-tide and 
a north-west wind, was in like manner a 
neutral field, where even a justice of peace 
and a strolling mendicant might meet 
upon terms of mutual forbearance. 

" Turn back ! turn back ! " exclaimed 
the vagrant : " why did ye not turn when 
I waved to you ?" 

" We thought," replied Sir Arthur in 
great agitation, " we thought we could get 
round Halket-head." 

" Halket-head ! The tide will be run- 
ning on Halket-head by this time like the 
Fall of Fyers ! It was a' I could do to get 
round it twenty minutes since — it was 
coming in three feet abreast. We will, 
may be, get back by Bally-burgh Ness 
Point yet. The Lord help us ! it 's our 
only chance. We can but try." 

"My God, my child!" — "My father, 
my dear father ! " exclaimed the parent and 
daughter, as fear lending them strength 
and speed, they turned to retrace their 
steps and endeavour to double the point, 
the projection of which formed the south- 
ern extremity of the bay. 

" I heard ye were here, frae the bit cal- 
lant ye sent to meet your carriage," said 
the beggar, as he trudged stoutly on a step 
or two behind Miss Wardour, " and I 
couldna bide to think o' the dainty young 
leddy's peril, that has aye been kind to 
ilka forlorn heart that cam near her. Sae 
I lookit at the lift and the rin o' the tide 
till I settled it, that if I could get down 
time eneugh to gie you warning we wad 
do weel yet. But I doubt, I doubt, I have 
been beguiled! for what mortal ee ever 
saw sic a race as the tide is rinning e'en 
now ? See, yonder's the Ratton's Skerry — 
he aye held his neb abune the water in my 
day — but he's aneath it now." 

Sir Arthur cast a look in the direction 
in which the old man pointed. A huge 
rock, which in general, even in spring- 
tides, displayed a hulk like the keel of a 
large vessel, was now quite under water, 
and its place only indicated by the boiling 
and breaking of the eddying waves which 
encountered its submarine resistance. 

" Mak haste, mak haste, my bonny 
leddy," continued the old man, " mak 
haste, and we may do yet ! Take haud o' 
my arm — an auld and frail arm it 's now, 
but it 's been in as sair stress as this is yet. 
Take haud o' my arm, my winsome leddy ! 
D' ye see yon wee black speck amang the 
wallowing weaves yonder ? This morning 
it was as high as the mast o' a brig — it 's 
sma' eneugh now — but while I see as 
muckle black about it as the crown o' my 
hat, I winna believe but we'll get round 
the Bally-burgh Ness, for a' that's come 
and gane yet." 

Isabella, in silence, accepted from the 



old man the assistance which Sir Arthur 
was. less ahle to afford her. The waves 
had now encroached so much upon the 
heach, that the firm and smooth footing 
which they had hitherto had on the sand 
must be exchanged for a rougher path 
close to the foot of the precipice, and in 
some places even raised upon its lower 
ledges. It would have been utterly im- 
possible for Sir Arthur Wardom- or his 
daughter to have found their way along 
these shelves without the guidance and 
encouragement of the beggar, who had 
been there before in high tides, though 
never, he acknowledged, " in sae awsome 
a night as this." 

It was indeed a dreadful evening. The 
howling of the storm mingled with the 
shrieks of the sea-fowl, and sounded like 
the dirge of the three devoted beings, who, 
pent between two of the most magnificent, 
yet most dreadful objects of nature — a 
raging tide and an insurmountable preci- 
pice — toiled along their painful and dan- 
gerous path, often lashed by the spray of 
some giant billow, which threw itself 
higher on the beach than those that had 
preceded it. Each minute did their enemy 
gain ground perceptibly upon them. Still 
however, loth to relinquish the last hopes 
of life, they bent their eyes on the black 
rock pointed out by Ochiltree. It was yet 
distinctly visible among the breakers, and 
continued to be so until they came to a 
turn in their precarious path, where an in- 
tervening projection of rock hid it from 
their sight. Deprived of the view of the 
beacon on which they had relied, they now 
experienced the double agony of terror 
and suspense. They struggled forward 
however ; but when they arrived at the 
point from which they ought to have seen 
the crag, it was no longer visible. The 
signal of safety was lost among a thousand 
white breakers, which, dashing upon the 
point of the promontory, rose in prodi- 
gious sheets of snowy foam, as high as the 
mast of a first-rate man-of-war, against the 
dark brow of the precipice. 

The countenance of the old man fell. 
Isabella gave a faint shriek, and " God 
have mercy upon us!" which her guide 
solemnly uttered, was piteously echoed by 
Sir Arthur — " My child ! my child ! to die 
such a death !" 

"My father! my dear father!" his 
daughter exclaimed, clinging to him, — 
" and you too, who have lost your own life 
in endeavouring to save ours !" " That 's 
not worth the counting," said the old man. 

" I hae lived to be wean- o' life; and here or 
yonder — at the back o' a dyke, in a wreath 
o' snaw, or in the wame o' a wave, what 
signifies how the auld gaberlunzie dies ?" 

" Good man," said Sir Arthur, " can 
you think of nothing ? — of no help ? — 1 11 
make you rich — I '11 give you a farm — 

" Our riches wiU be soon equal," said 
the beggar, looking out upon the strife of 
the waters; "they are sae already; for I 
hae nae land, and you would give your 
fair bounds and barony for a square yard 
of rock that would be dry for twal hours." 

While they exchanged these words they 
paused upon the highest ledge of rock to 
which they coidd attain ; for it seemed 
that any further attempt to move forward 
coidd only serve to anticipate their fate. 
Here, then, they were to await the sure 
though slow progress of the raging ele- 
ment, something in the situation of the 
martyrs of the early church, who, exposed 
by heathen tyrants to be slain by wild 
beasts, were compelled for a time to wit- 
ness the impatience and rage by which 
the animals were agitated, while awaiting 
the signal for undoing their grates and 
letting them loose upon their victims. 

Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella 
time to collect the powers of a mind na- 
turally strong and courageous, and which 
rallied itself at this terrible juncture. 
" Must we yield life," she said, " without 
a struggle ? Is there no path, however 
dreadful, by which we could clinib the 
crag, or at least attain some height above 
the tide where we could remain till morn- 
ing, or till help comes ? they must be 
aware of our situation, and will raise the 
country to relieve us." 

Sir Arthur, who heard, but scarcely com- 
prehended his daughter's question, turned, 
nevertheless, instinctively and eagerly to 
the old man, as if their lives were in his 
gift. Ochiltree paused : — " I was a bauld 
craigsman," he said, "ance in my life, 
and mony a kittywake's and lungie's nest 
hae I harried up amang thae very black 
rocks ; but it 's lang, lang syne, and nae 
mortal could speel them without a rope — 
and if I had ane, my ee-sight, and my 
footstep, and my hand-grip, hae a' failed 
mony a day sinsyne — and then how could 
I save you ? — But there was a path here 
ance, though maybe, if we could see it, ye 
would rather bide where we are. — His 
name be praised!" he ejaculated sud- 
denly, " there 's ane coming down the 
crag e'en now ! " then exalting his voice, 



he holla' d out to the daring adventurer 
such instructions as his former practice 
and the remembrance of local circum- 
stances suddenly forced upon his mind : 
— " Ye 're right — ye 're right ! — that gate, 
that gate — fasten the rope weel round 
Crummie's-horn, that 's the muckle black 
stane — cast twa plies round it — that 's it ! 
— now, weize yoursell a wee easel-ward — 
a wee mair yet to that ither stane — we 
ca'd it the Cat's lug — there used to be the 
root o' an aik tree there — that will do ! — 
canny now, lad — canny now — tak tent and 
taktime. — Lord bless ye, tak time. — Vera 
weel ! — Now ye maun get to Bessy's Apron, 
that 's the muckle braid flat blue stane — 
and then, I think, wi' your help and the 
tow thegither, I '11 win at ye, and then 
we Tl be able to get up the young leddy 
and Sir Arthur." 

The adventurer, following the direc- 
tions of old Edie, flung him down the end 
of the rope, which he secured around Miss 
Wardour, wrapping her previously in his 
own blue gown, to preserve her as much 
as possible from injury. Then, availing 
himself of the rope, which was made fast 
at the other end, he began to ascend the 
face of the crag — a most precarious and 
dizzy undertaking, which however, after 
one or two perilous escapes, placed him 
safe on the broad flat stone beside our 
friend Lovel. Their joint strength was 
able to raise Isabella to the place of safety 
which they had attained. Lovel then de- 
scended, in order to assist Sir Arthur, 
around whom he adjusted the rope ; and 
again mounting to their place of refuge, 
with the assistance of old Ochiltree and 
such aid as Sir Arthur himself could afford, 
he raised himself beyond the reach of the 
billows. Sir Walter Scott. 


It was a November morning, and the 
cliffs which overlooked the ocean were 
hung with thick and heavy mist, when the 
portals of the ancient and half -ruinous 
tower, in which Lord Ravenswood had 
spent the last and troubled years of his 
life, opened, that his mortal remains 
might pass forward to an abode yet more 
dreary and lonely. The pomp of attend- 
ance, to which the deceased had, in his 
latter years, been a stranger, was revived 
as he was about to be consigned to the 
realms of forgetfulness. 

Banner after banner with the various 
devices and coats of this ancient family 
and its connections followed each other 
in mournful procession from under the 
low-browed archway of the court-yard. 
The principal gentry of the country at- 
tended in the deepest mourning, and tem- 
pered the pace of their long train of horses 
to the solemn march befitting the occasion. 
Trumpets, with banners of crape attached 
to them, sent forth their long and melan- 
choly notes to regulate the movements of 
the procession. An immense train of 
inferior mourners and menials closed the 
rear, which had not yet issued from the 
castle-gate, when the van had reached the 
chapel where the body was to be depo- 

Contrary to the custom, and even to 
the law of the time, the body was met by 
a priest of the Scottish episcopal com- 
munion, arrayed in his surplice, and pre- 
pared to read over the coffin of the de- 
ceased the funeral service of the church. 
Such had been the desire of Lord Ravens- 
wood in his last illness, and it was readily 
complied with by the tory gentlemen, or 
cavaliers, as they affected to style them- 
selves, in which faction most of his kins- 
men were enrolled. The Presbyterian 
church-judicatory of the bounds, consi- 
dering the ceremony as a bravading insult 
upon their authority, had applied to the 
Lord Keeper, as the nearest privy-coun- 
cillor, for a warrant to prevent its being 
carried into effect ; so that, when the 
clergyman had opened his prayer-book, 
an officer of the law, supported by some 
armed men, commanded him to be silent. 
An insult, which fired the whole assembly 
with indignation, was particularly and 
instantly resented by the only son of the 
deceased, Edgar, popularly called the 
Master of Ravenswood, a youth of about 
twenty years of age. He clapped his 
hand on his sword, and bidding the 
official person to desist at his peril from 
farther interruption, commanded the cler- 
gyman to proceed. The man attempted 
to enforce his commission, but as a hun- 
dred swords at once glittered in the air, 
he contented himself with protesting 
against the violence which had been of- 
fered to him in the execution of his duty, 
and stood aloof, a sullen and moody spec- 
tator of the ceremonial, muttering as one 
who should say, " you '11 rue the day that 
clogs me with this answer." 

The scene was worthy of an artist's 
pencil. Under the very arch of the house 



of death, the clergyman, affrighted at the 
scene, and trembling for his own safety, 
hastily and unwillingly rehearsed the so- 
lemn service of the church, and spoke 
dust to dust, and ashes to ashes, over 
ruined pride and decayed prosperity. 
Around stood the relations of the de- 
ceased, their countenances more in anger 
than in sorrow, and the- drawn swords 
which they brandished forming a violent 
contrast with their deep mourning habits. 
In the countenance of the young man 
alone, resentment seemed for the moment 
overpowered by the deep agony with 
which he beheld his nearest and almost 
his only friend consigned to the tomb of 
his ancestry. A relative observed him 
turn deadly pale, when, all rites being now 
duly observed, it became the duty of the 
chief mourner to lower down into the I 
charnel vault, where mouldering coffins ! 
showed theh tattered velvet and decayed 
plating, the head of the corpse which was 
to be their partner in corruption. He 
stepped to the youth and offered his 
assistance, which, by a mute motion, Edgar 
Ravenswood rejected. Firmly, and with- 
out a tear, he performed that last duty. 
The stone was laid on the sepidchre, the 
door of the aisle was locked, aud the 
youth took possession of its massive key. 

As the crowd left the chapel, he paused 
on the steps which led to its Gothic chan- 
cel. " Gentlemen and friends," he said, 
" you have this day done no common 
duty to the body of your deceased kins- 
man. The observance of rites which in 
other countries are allowed as the due of 
the meanest christian, would tins day 
have been denied to the body of your re- 
lative^ — not certainly sprung of the meanest 
house in Scotland — had it not been as- 
sured to him by your courage. Others 
bury their dead in sorrow and tears, in 
silence and in reverence ; our funeral rites 
are marred by the intrusion of bailiffs and 
ruffians, and our grief — the grief due to 
our departed friend — is chased from our 
cheeks by the glow of just indignation. 
But it is well that I know from what I 
quiver this arrow has come forth. It was ' 
only he that dug the grave who could 
have the mean cruelty to disturb the ob- 
sequies ; and Heaven do as much to me 
and more, if I requite not to this man and 
his house the ruin and disgrace he has 
brought on me and mine !" 

A numerous part of the assembly ap- 
plauded this speech as the spirited ex- 
pression of just resentment ; but the more 

cool and judicious regretted that it had 
been uttered. The fortunes of the heir 
of Ravenswood were too low to brave the 
farther hostility which they imagined these 
open expressions of resentment must ne- 
cessarily provoke. Their apprehensions, 
however, proved groundless, at least in 
the immediate consequences of this affair. 

The mourners returned to the tower, 
there, according to a custom but recently 
abolished in Scotland, to carouse deep 
healths to the memory of the deceased, 
to make the house of sorrow ring with 
sounds of jovialty and debauch, and to 
diminish, by the expense of a large and 
profuse entertainment, the limited reve- 
nues of the heir of him whose funeral 
they thus strangely honoured. It w _ as the 
custom, however, and on the present oc- 
casion it was fully observed. The tables 
swam in wine, the populace feasted in the 
court-yard, the yeomen in the kitchen and 
buttery ; and two years' rent of Ravens- 
wood's remaining property hardly de- 
frayed the charge of the funeral revel. 
The wine did its office on all but the 
Master of Ravenswood, a title which he 
still retained, though forfeiture had at- 
tached to that of his father. He, while 
passing around the cup which he himself 
did not taste, soon listened to a thousand 
exclamations against the Lord Keeper, 
and passionate protestations of attachment 
to himself and to the honour of his house. 
He listened with dark and sullen brow to 
ebullitions which lie considered justly as 
equally evanescent with the crimson bub- 
bles on the brink of the goblet, or at least 
with the vapours which its contents excited 
in the brains of the revellers around him. 

When the last flask was emptied they 
took their leave, with deep protestations 
— to be forgotten on the morrow, if in- 
deed those who made them should not 
think it necessary for their safety to make 
a more solemn retractation. 

Accepting their adieus with an air of 
contempt which he could scarce conceal, 
Ravenswood at length beheld his ruinous 
habitation cleared of this confluence of 
riotous guests, and returned to the de- 
serted hall, which now appeared doubly 
lonely from the cessation of that clamour 
to which it had so lately echoed. But its 
space was peopled by phantoms, which 
the imagination of the young heir con- 
jured up before him — the tarnished ho- 
nour and degraded fortunes of his house, 
the destruction of his own hopes, and the j 
triumph of that family by whom they had j 



been ruined. To a mind naturally of a 
gloomy cast, here was ample room for me- 
ditation, and the musings of young Ra- 
venswood were deep and unwitnessed. 

The peasant who shows the ruins of 
the tower, which still crown the beetling 
cliff and behold the war of the waves, 
though no more tenanted save by the sea- 
mew and cormorant, even yet affirms, that 
on this fatal night the Master of Ravens- 
wood, by the bitter exclamations of his 
despair, evoked some evil fiend under 
whose malignant influence the future tissue 
of incidents was woven. Alas ! what fiend 
can suggest more desperate counsels than 
those adopted under the guidance of our 
own violent and unresisted passions ? 

Sir Walter Scott. 


She sat upon one of the disjointed 
stones of the ancient fountain, and seemed 
to watch the progress of its current, as it 
bubbled forth to daylight in gay and 
sparkling confusion from under the sha- 
dow of the ribbed and darksome vault, 
with which veneration, or perhaps re- 
morse, had canopied its source. To a 
superstitious eye, Lucy Ashton, folded in 
her plaided mantle, with her long hair 
escaping partly from the snood and falling 
upon her silver neck, might have sug- 
gested the idea of the murdered Nymph 
of the Fountain. But Ravenswood only 
saw a female exquisitely beautiful, and 
rendered yet more so in his eyes — how 
could it be otherwise ? — by the conscious- 
ness that she had placed her affections on 
him. As he gazed on her, he felt his 
fixed resolution melting like wax in the 
sun, and hastened, therefore, from his 
concealment in the neighbouring thicket. 
She saluted him, but did not arise from 
the stone on which she was seated. 

" My mad-cap brother," she said, " has 
left me, but I expect him back in a few 
minutes ; for fortunately, as anything 
pleases him for a minute, nothing has 
charms for him much longer." 

Ravenswood did not feel the power of 
informing Lucy that her brother medi- 
tated a distant excursion, and would not 
return in haste. He sat himself down on 
the grass at some little distance from Miss 
Ashton, and both were silent for a short 

" I like this spot," said Lucy at length, 

as if she had found the silence embar- 
rassing; "the bubbling murmur of the 
clear fountain, the "waving of the trees, 
the profusion of grass and wild flowers 
that rise among the ruins, make it like a 
scene in romance. I think, too, I have 
heard it is a spot connected with the le- 
gendary lore which I love so well." 

" It has been thought," answered Ra- 
venswood, " a fatal spot to my family ; 
and I have some reason to term it so, for 
it was here I first saw Miss Ashton — and 
it is here I must take my leave of her for 

The blood, which the first part of this 
speech called into Lucy's cheeks, was spe- 
dily expelled by its conclusion. 

" To take leave of us, Master !" she ex- 
claimed ; " what can have happened to 
hurry you away ? — I know Alice hates — I 
mean dislikes my father — and I hardly 
understood her humour to-day, it was so 
mysterious. But I am certain my father 
is sincerely grateful for the high service 
you rendered us. Let me hope that ha- 
ving won your friendship hardly, we shall 
not lose it lightly." 

" Lose it, Miss Ashton ?" said theMaster 
of Ravenswood, " No ! — wherever my 
fortune calls me, whatever she inflicts 
upon me, it is your friend, your sincere 
friend, who acts or suffers. But there is 
a fate on me, and I must go, or I shall 
add the ruin of others to my own." 

" Yet do not go from us, Master," said 
Lucy ; and she laid her hand, in all sim- 
plicity and kindness, upon the skirt of 
his cloak as if to detain him. " You shall 
not part from us. My father is powerful, 
he has friends that are more so than him- 
self : do not go till you see what his gra- 
titude will do for you. Believe me, he is 
already labouring in your behalf with the 

" It may be so," said the Master proud- 
ly ; " yet it is not to your father, Miss 
Ashton, but to my own exertions, that I 
ought to owe success in the career on 
which I am about to enter. My prepara- 
tions are already made — a sword and a 
cloak, and a bold heart and a determined 

Lucy covered her face with her hands, 
and the tears, in spite of her, forced their 
way between her fingers. " Forgive me," 
said Ravenswood, taking her right hand, 
which, after slight resistance, she yielded 
to him, still continuing to shade her face 
with the left ; "lam too rude — too rough 
— too intractable, to deal with any being 



so soft and gentle us you are. Forget 
that so stern a vision has crossed your 
path of life ; and let me pursue mine, sure 
that I can meet with no worse misfortune 
after the moment it divides me from your 

Lucy wept on, but her tears were less 
bitter. Each attempt which the Master 
made to explain his purpose of departure 
only proved a new evidence of his desire 
to stay ; until at length, instead of bid- 
ding her farewell, he gave his faith to her 
for ever, and received her troth in return. 
The whole passed so suddenly, and arose 
so much out of the immediate impulse of 
the moment, that ere the Master of Ra- 
venswood could reflect upon the conse- 
quences of the step which he had taken, 
their lips as well as their hands had 
pledged the sincerity of their affection. 

" And now," he said, after a moment's 
consideration, " it is fit I should speak to 
Sir "William Ashton — he must know of 
our engagement. Ravenswood must not 
seem to dwell under his roof to solicit clan- 
destinely the affections of his daughter." 

" You would not speak to my father on 
the subject ?" said Lucy doubtingly ; and 
then added more warmly, " O do not, 
do not ! Let your lot in life be deter- 
mined, your station and purpose ascer- 
tained, before you address my father ; I 
am sure he loves you — I think he will 
consent — but then my mother !" 

She paused, ashamed to express the 
doubt she felt how far her father dared to 
form any positive resolution on this most 
important subject without the consent of 
his lady. 

" Your mother, my Lucy ?" replied Ra- 
venswood, " she is of the house of Douglas, 
a house that has intermarried with mine, 
even when its glory and power were at 
the highest — what could your mother ob- 
ject to my alliance ?" 

" I did not say object," said Lucy ; "but 
she is jealous of her rights, and may claim 
a mother's title to be consulted in the 
first instance." 

" Be it so," replied Ravenswood; " Lon- 
don is distant, but a letter will reach it 
and receive an answer within a fortnight, 
— I will not press on the Lord Keeper for 
an instant reply to my proposal." 

"But," hesitated Lucy, "were it not 
better to wait — to wait a few weeks ? 
Were my mother to see you — to know you 
— I am sure she would approve; but you 
are unacquainted personally, and the an- 
cient feud between the families — " 

Ravenswood fixed upon her his keen 
dark eyes, as if he was desirous of pene- 
trating into her veiy soul. 

" Lucy," he said, " I have sacrificed to 
you projects of vengeance long nursed, 
and sworn to with ceremonies little better 
than heathen ; I sacrificed them to your 
image ere I knew the worth which itrepre- 
sented. In the evening which succeeded 
my poor father's funeral, I cut a lock from 
my hair, and, as it consumed in the fire, I 
swore that my rage and revenge should 
pursue his enemies until they shrivelled 
before me like that scorched-up symbol 
of annihilation." 

" It was a deadly sin," said Lucy, turn- 
ing pale, " to make a vow so fatal." 

" I acknowledge it," said Ravenswood, 
" and it had been a worse crime to keep 
it. It was for your sake that I abjured 
these purposes of vengeance, though I 
scarce knew that such was the argument 
by which I was conquered until I saw you 
once more, and became conscious of the 
influence you possessed over me." 

" And why do you now," said Lucy, 
" recal sentiments so terrible — sentiments 
so inconsistent with those you profess for 
me — with those your importunity has pre- 
vailed on me to acknowledge ?" 

" Because," said her lover, " I would 
impress on you the price at which I have 
bought your love — the right I have to 
expect your constancy. I say not that I 
have bartered for it the honour of my 
house, its last remaining possession ; but 
though I say it not, and think it not, I 
cannot conceal from myself that the world 
may do both." 

" If such are your sentiments," said 
Lucy, " you have played a cruel game 
with me. But it is not too late to give it 
over : take back the faith and troth 
which you could not plight to me without 
suffering abatement of honour : let what 
is passed be as if it had not been : forget 
me — I will endeavour to forget myself." 

" You do me injustice." said the Mas- 
ter of Ravenswood ; "by all I hold true 
and honourable, you do me the extremity 
of injustice : if I mentioned the price at 
winch I have bought your love, it is only 
to show how much I prize it, to bind our 
engagement by a still firmer tie, and to 
show, by what I have done to attain this 
station in your regard, how much I must 
suffer should you ever break your faith." 

"And why, Ravenswood," answered 
Lucy, " should you think that possible ? 
Why should you urge me with even the 



mention of infidelity ? Is it because I ask 
you to delay applying to my father for a 
little space of time? Bind me by what 
vows you please ; if vows are unnecessary 
to secure constancy, they may yet prevent 

Ravenswood pleaded, apologized, and 
even kneeled, to appease her displeasure ; 
and Lucy, as placable as she was single- 
hearted, readily forgave the offence which 
his doubts had implied. The dispute thus 
agitated however ended by the lovers 
going through an emblematic ceremony 
of their troth-plight, of which the vulgar 
still preserve some traces. They broke 
betwixt them the thin broad-piece of gold 
which Alice had refused to receive from 

" And never shall this leave my bosom," 
said Lucy, as she hung the piece of gold 
round her neck and concealed it with her 
handkerchief, " until you, Edgar Ravens- 
wood, ask me to resign it to you ; and, 
while I wear it, never shall that heart 
acknowledge another love than yours." 

With like protestations Ravenswood 
placed his portion of the coin opposite to 
his heart. Sir Walter Scott. 


The mourners, when the service of in- 
terment was ended, discovered that there 
was among them one more than the in- 
vited number, and the remark was com- 
municated in whispers to each other. The 
suspicion fell upon a figure, which, muf- 
fled in the same deep mourning with the 
others, was reclined, almost in a state of 
insensibility, against one of the pillars of 
the sepulchral vault. The relatives of the 
Ashton family were expressing in whispers 
their surprise and displeasure at the intru- 
sion, when they were interrupted by Colo- 
nel Ashton, who, in his father's absence, 
acted as principal mourner. " I know," 
he said in a whisper, " who this person is; 
he has, or shall soon have, as deep cause 
of mourning as ourselves : leave me to 
deal with him, and do not disturb the 
ceremony by unnecessary exposure." So 
saying, he separated himself from the 
group of his relations, and taking the un- 
known mourner by the cloak, he said to 
him, in a tone of suppressed emotion, 
" Follow me !" 

The stranger, as if startling from a trance 
at the sound of his voice, mechanically 
obeyed, and they ascended the broken 
ruinous stair which led from the sepulchre 
into the churchyard. The other mourn- 
ers followed, but remained grouped toge- 
ther at the door of the vault, watching 
with anxiety the motions of Colonel Ash- 
ton and the stranger, who now appeared 
to be in close conference beneath the shade 
of a yew-tree, in the most remote part of 
the burial ground. 

To this sequestered spot Colonel Ash- 
ton had guided the stranger, and then 
turning round addressed him in a stern 
and composed tone. " I cannot doubt 
that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?" 
No answer was returned. " I cannot 
doubt," resumed the colonel, trembling 
with rising passion, " that I speak to the 
murderer of my sister ?" 

" You have named me but too truly," 
said Ravenswood, in a hollow and tremu- 
lous voice. 

" If you repent what you have done," 
said the Colonel, " may your penitence 
avail you before God; with me it shall 
serve you nothing. Here," he said, gi- 
ving a paper, " is the measure of my 
sword, and a memorandum of the time and 
place of meeting. Sunrise tomorrow 
morning, on the links to the east of Wolf's- 

The Master of Ravenswood held the 
paper in his hand, and seemed irresolute. 
At length he spoke. " Do not," he said, 
" urge to farther desperation a wretch who 
is already desperate. Enjoy your life 
while you can, and let me seek my death 
from another." 

" That you never, never shall !" said 
Douglas Ashton. " You shall die by my 
hand, or you shall complete the ruin of 
my family by taking my life. If you re- 
fuse my open challenge, there is no advan- 
tage I will not take of you, no indignity 
with which I will not load you, until the 
very name of Ravenswood shall be the 
sign of everything that is dishonourable, 
as it is already of all that is villainous." 

" That it shall never be," said Ravens- 
wood fiercely ; " if I am the last who must 
bear it, I owe it to those who once owned 
it, that the name shall be extinguished 
without infamy. I accept your challenge, 
time, and place of meeting. We meet, I 
presume, alone ?" 

" Alone we meet," said Colonel Ashton, 
" and alone wall the survivor of us return 
from that place of rendezvous." 



" Then God have mercy on the soul of 
him who falls !" said Ravenswood. 

" So be it !" said Colonel Ashton ; " so 
far can my charity reach even for the man 
I hate most deadly, and with the deepest 
reason. Now break off, for we shall be 
interrupted. The links by the sea-shore 
to the east of "Wolf 's-hope— the horn*, sun- 
rise — our swords our only weapons." 

" Enough," said the Master, " I will not 
fail you." 

They separated ; Colonel Ashton joining 
the rest of the mourners, and the Master 
of Ravenswood taking his horse, which 
was tied to a tree behind the church. 
Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with 
the funeral guests, but found a pretext for 
detaching himself from them in the even- 
ing, when, changing his dress to a riding 
habit, he rode to "Wolf's-hope that night, 
and took up his abode in the little inn, in 
order that be might be ready for his ren- 
dezvous in the morning. 

It is not known how the Master of Ra- 
venswood disposed of the rest of that un- 
happy day. Late at night, however, he 
arrived at "Wolf's-Crag, and aroused his 
old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had I 
ceased to expect his return. Confused and 
flying rumours of the late tragical death 
of Miss Ashton, and of its mysterious 
cause, had already reached the old man, 
who was filled with the utmost anxiety, 
on account of the probable effect these 
events might produce upon the mind of 
his master. 

The conduct of Ravenswood did not al- 
leviate his apprehensions. To the butler's 
trembling entreaties that he would take 
some refreshment, he at first returned no 
answer, and then suddenly and fiercely de- 
manding wine, he drank, contrary to his 
habits, a very large draught. Seeing that 
his master would eat nothing, the old man 
affectionately entreated that he would per- 
mit him to light him to his chamber. It 
was not until the request was three or four 
times repeated, that Ravenswood made a 
mute sign of compliance. But when Bal- 
derstone conducted him to an apartment 
which had been comfortably fitted up, and 
which, since his return, he had usually oc- 
cupied, Ravenswood stopped short on the 

" Not here," said he, sternly ; " show 
me the room in which my father died ; the 
room in which she slept the night they 
were at the castle." 

" Who, sir?" said Caleb, too terrified to 
preserve his presence of mind. 

" She, Lucy Ashton ! — would you kill 
me, old man, by forcing me to repeat her 
name ?" 

Caleb would have said something of the 
disrepair of the chamber, but was silenced 
by the irritable impatience which was ex- 
pressed in his master's countenance; he 
lighted the way trembling and in silence, 
placed the lamp on the table of the de- 
serted room, and was about to attempt 
some arrangement of the bed, when his 
master bid him begone in a tone that ad- 
mitted of no delay. The old man retired, 
not to rest but to prayer ; and from time 
to time crept to the door of the apart- 
ment, in order to find out whether Ravens- 
wood had gone to repose. His measured 
heavy step upon the floor was only inter- 
rupted by deep groans ; and the repeated 
stamps of the heel of his heavy boot inti- 
mated too clearly that the wretched in- 
mate was abandoning himself at such mo- 
ments to paroxysms of uncontrolled agony. 
The old man thought that the morning, 
for which he longed, would never have 
dawned ; but time, whose course rolls on 
with equal current, however it may seem 
more rapid or more slow to mortal appre- 
hension, brought the dawn at last, and 
spread a ruddy light on the broad verge of 
the glistening ocean. It was early in No- 
vember, and the weather was serene for 
the season of the year. But an easterly 
wind had prevailed during the night, and 
the advancing tide rolled nearer than usual 
to the foot of the crags on which the castle 
was founded. 

With the first peep of light, Caleb Bal- 
derstone again resorted to the door of Ra- 
venswood's sleeping apartment, through a 
chink of which he observed him engaged 
in measuring the length of two or three 
swords which lay in a closet adjoining to 
the apartment. He muttered to himself, 
as he selected one of these weapons, " It 
is shorter — let him have this advantage, as 
he has every other." 

Caleb Balderstone knew too well, from 
■what he witnessed, upon what enterprise 
his master was bound, and how vain all 
interference on his part must necessarily 
prove. He had but time to retreat from 
the door, so nearly was he surprised by his 
master suddenly coming out and descend- 
ing to the stables. The faithful domestic 
followed; and from the dishevelled ap- 
pearance of his master's dress, and his 
ghastly looks, was confirmed in his con- 
jecture that he had passed the night with- 
out sleep or repose. He found Mm busily 



engaged in saddling his horse, a service 
from which Caleb, though with faltering 
voice and trembling hands, offered to re- 
lieve him. Ravenswood rejected his as- 
sistance by a mute sign, and having led 
the animal into the court was just about 
to mount him, when the old domestic's 
fear giving way to the strong attachment 
which was the principal passion of his 
mind, he flung himself suddenly at Ravens- 
wood's feet and clasped his knees, while 
he exclaimed, " Oh, Sir ! oh, master ! kill 
me if you wdll, but do not go out on this 
dreadful errand ! Oh ! my dear master, 

wait but this day — the Marquis of A 

comes to morrow, and a' will be remedied." 

" You have no longer a master, Caleb," 
said Ravenswood, endeavouring to extri- 
cate himself ; " why, old man, would you 
cling to a fallen tower ?" 

" But I have a master," cried Caleb, still 
holding him fast, " while the heir of Ra- 
venswood breathes. I am but a servant ; 
but I was born your father's — your grand- 
father's servant — I was born for the fa- 
mily — I have lived for them — I would die 
for them ! Stay but at home, and all will 
be well !" 

" Well, fool ! well !" said Ravenswood ; 
" vain old man, nothing hereafter in life 
will be well with me, and happiest is the 
hour that shall soonest close it !" 

So saying, he extricated himself from 
the old man's hold, threw himself on his 
horse, and rode out at the gate ; but in- 
stantly turning back, he threw towards 
Caleb, who hastened to meet him, a heavy 
purse of gold. 

" Caleb !" he said, with a ghastly smile, 
"I make you my executor;" and again 
turning his bridle, he resumed his course 
down the hill. 

The gold fell unheeded on the pavement, 
for the old man ran to observe the course 
which was taken by his master, who turned 
to the left down a small and broken path, 
which gained the seashore through a cleft 
in the rock, and led to a sort of cove, 
where in former times the boats of the 
castle were wont to be moored. Observing 
him take this course, Caleb hastened to 
the eastern battlement, which commanded 
the prospect of the whole sands, very near 
as far as the village of Wolf's-hope. He 
could easily see his master riding in that 
direction, as fast as the horse could carry 
him. The prophecy at once rushed on 
Balderstone's mind, that the lord of Ra- 
venswood should perish on the Kelpie's 
Flow, which lay half way betwixt the 

tower and the links, or sand knolls, to the 
northward of Wolf's-hope. He saw him 
accordingly reach the fatal spot, but he 
never saw him pass further. 

Colonel Ashton, frantic for revenge, was 
already in the field, pacing the turf with 
eagerness, and looking with impatience to- 
wards the tower for the arrival of his an- 
tagonist. The sun had now risen, and 
showed its broad disk above the eastern 
sea, so that he could easily discern the 
horseman who rode towards him with 
speed, which argued impatience equal to 
his own. At once the figure became in- 
visible, as if it had melted into the air. 
He rubbed his eyes as if he had witnessed 
an apparition, and then hastened to the 
spot, near which he was met by Balder- 
stone, who came from the opposite direc- 
tion. No trace whatever of horse or rider 
could be discerned ; it only appeared that 
the late winds and high tides had greatly 
extended the usual bounds of the quick- 
sand, and that the unfortunate horseman, 
as appeared from the hoof-tracks, in his 
precipitated haste, had not attended to 
keep on the firm sands on the foot of the 
rock, but had taken the shortest and most 
dangerous course. One only vestige of 
his fate appeared. A large sable feather 
had been detached from his hat, and the 
rippling waves of the rising tide wafted it 
to Caleb's feet. The old man took it up, 
dried it, and placed it in his bosom. 

Sir Walter Scott. 


He entered the room with that easy 
grace which characterized the gay cour- 
tiers among whom he flourished, and ap- 
proached the fair tenant, whom he found 
seated near a table covered with books 
and music, and having on her left hand 
the large half-open casement, dim with 
stained glass, admitting only a doubtful 
light into this lordly retiring-room, wdiich, 
hung with the richest tapestry of the 
Gobelins, and ornamented with piles of 
china and splendid mirrors, seemed like a 
bower built for a prince to receive his 

The splendid dress of the inmate cor- 
responded with the taste of the apartment 
which she occupied, and partook of the 
oriental costume which the much admired 
Roxalana had then brought into fashion. 



A slender foot and ankle, which escaped 
from the wide trowsers of richly orna- 
mented and embroidered blue satin, was 
the only part of her person distinctly seen; 
the rest was enveloped from head to foot 
in a long veil of silver gauze, which, like 
a feathery and light mist on a beautiful 
landscape, suffered you to perceive that 
what it concealed was rarely lovely, yet 
induced the imagination even to enhance 
the charms it shaded. Such part of the 
dress as could be discovered, was, like the 
veil and the trowsers, in the oriental taste; 
a rich turban and splendid caftan were ra- 
ther indicated than distinguished through 
the folds of the former. The Avhole attire 
argued at least coquetry on the part of a 
fair one, who must have expected, from 
her situation, a visitor of some pretension; 
and induced Buckingham to smile inter- 
nally at Christian's account of the extreme 
simplicity and purity of his niece. 

He approached the lady en cavalier, and 
addressed her with the air of being con- 
scious, while he acknowledged his offences, 
that his condescending to do so formed a 
sufficient apology for them. " Fair mis- 
tress Alice," he said, " I am sensible how 
deeply I ought to sue for pardon for the 
mistaken zeal of my servants, who, seeing 
you deserted and exposed without protec- 
tion during an unlucky affray, took it upon 
them to bring you under the roof of one 
who would expose his life rather than suf- 
fer you to sustain a moment's anxiety. 
Was it my fault that those around me 
should have judged it necessary to inter- 
fere for your preservation ; or that, aware 
of the interest I must take in you, they 
have detained you till I could myself, in 
personal attendance, receive your com- 
mands ?" 

" That attendance has not been speedily 
rendered, my lord," answered the lady. 
" I have been a prisoner for two days — 
neglected, and left to the charge of me- 
nials !" 

" How say you, lady ? — Neglected !" 
exclaimed the duke. " By heaven, if the 
best in my household has failed in his 
duty, I will discard him on the instant !" 
" I complain of no lack of courtesy from 
your servants, my lord," she replied; "but 
methinks it had been but complaisant in 
the duke himself to explain to me earlier 
wherefore he has had the boldness to de- 
tain me as a state prisoner !" 

" And can the divine Alice doubt," said 
Buckingham, " that had time and space, 
those cruel enemies to the flight of pas- 

sion, given permission, the instant inwhich 
you crossed your vassal's threshold had 
seen its devoted master at your feet, who 
hath thought, since he saw you, of no- 
thing but the charms which that fatal 
morning placed before him at Chiffinch's?" 
" I understand then, my lord," said the 
lady, "that you have been absent, and 
have had no part in the restraint which 
has been exercised upon me ?" 

" Absent on the king's command, lady, 
and employedin the discharge of his duty," 
answered Buckingham, without hesitation. 
" What could I do ? The moment you left 
Chiffinch's, his majesty commanded me 
to the saddle in such haste that I had no 
time to change my satin buskins for 
riding-boots. If my absence has occa- 
sioned you a moment of inconvenience, 
blame the inconsiderate zeal of those, who, 
seeing me depart from London, half dis- 
tracted at my separation from you, were 
willing to contribute their unmannered, 
though well-meant exertions, to preserve 
their master from despair, by retaining the 
fair Alice within his reach. To whom, 
indeed, could they have restored you? 
He whom you selected as your champion 
is in prison, or fled — your father absent 
from town — your uncle in the north. To 
Chiffinch's house you had expressed your 
well-founded aversion ; and what fitter 
asylum remained than that of your de- 
voted slave, where you must ever reign a 
queen ?" 

"An imprisoned one," said the lady; 
" I desire not such royalty." 

" Alas ! how wilfully you misconstrue 
me," said the duke, kneeling on one knee; 
" and what right can you have to com- 
plain of a few hours' gentle restraint — 
you, who destine so many to hopeless cap- 
tivity ! Be merciful for once, and with- 
draw that envious veil ; for the divinities 
are ever most cruel when they deliver 
their oracles from such clouded recesses. 
Suffer at least my rash hand" — 

" I will save your grace that unworthy 
trouble," said the lady haughtily; and 
rising up she flung back over her shoulders 
the veil which shrouded her, saying, at 
the same time, " Look on me, my lord 
duke, and see if these be indeed the charms 
which have made on your grace an im- 
pression so powerful." 

Buckingham did look; and the effect 
produced on him by surprise was so strong, 
that he rose hastily from his knee, and re- 
mained for a few seconds as if he had 
been petrified. The figure that stood be- 



fore him had neither the height nor the 
rich shape of Alice Bridgenorth; and 
though perfectly well made, was so 
slightly formed as to seem almost infan- 
tine. Her dress was three or four short 
vests of embroidered satin, disposed one 
over the other, of different colours, or 
rather different shades of similar colours ; 
for strong contrast was carefully avoided. 
These opened in front so as to show part 
of the throat and neck, partially obscured 
by an inner covering of the finest lace ; 
over the uppermost vest was worn a sort 
of mantle, or coat of rich fur. A small 
but magnificent turban was carelessly 
placed on her head, from under which 
flowed a profusion of coal-black tresses 
which Cleopatra might have envied. The 
taste and splendour of the eastern dress 
corresponded with the complexion of the. 
lady's face, which was brunette, of a shade 
so pdark as might almost have served an 

Amidst a set of features, in which rapid 
and keen expression made amends for the 
want of regular beauty, the essential points 
of eyes as bright as diamonds, and teeth 
as white as pearls, did not escape the 
Duke of Buckingham, a professed con- 
noisseur in female charms. In a word, 
the fanciful and singular female who thus 
unexpectedly produced herself before him, 
had one of those faces which are never 
seen without making an impression ; 
which, when removed, are long after re- 
membered ; and for which, in our idle- 
ness, we are tempted to invent a hundred 
histories, that we may please our fancy 
by supposing the features under the in- 
fluence of different kinds of emotion. 
Every one must have in recollection coun- 
tenances of this kind, which, from a cap- 
tivating and stimulating originality of ex- 
pression, abide longer in the memory, and 
are more seductive to the imagination, 
than even regular beauty. 

" My lord duke," said the lady, " it 
seems the lifting of my veil has done the 
work of magic upon your grace. Alas 
for the captive princess, whose nod was 
to command a vassal so costly ! She runs, 
methinks, no slight chance of being turned 
out of doors, like a second Cinderella, to 
seek her fortunes among lacqueys and 

" I am astonished ! " said the duke ; 
" that villain, Jerningham — I will have 
the scoundrel's blood ! " 

" Nay, never abuse Jerningham for the 
matter," said the unknown ; " but lament 

your own unhappy engagements. While 
you, my lord duke, were posting north- 
ward, in white satin buskins, to toil in 
the king's affairs, the right and lawful 
princess sat weeping in sables in the un- 
cheered solitude to which your absence 
condemned her. Two days she was dis- 
consolate in vain ; on the third came an 
African enchantress to change the scene 
for her, and the person for your grace. 
Methinks, my lord, this adventure will 
tell but ill, when some faithful squire shall 
recount or record the gallant adventures 
of the second Duke of Buckingham." 

" Fairly bit, and bantered to boot," said 
the duke ; " the monkey has a turn for 
satire, too, by all that is piquant e. Hark 
ye, fair princess, how dared you adven- 
ture on such a trick as you have been ac- 
complice to ?" 

" Dare, my lord !" answered the stran- 
ger, " put the question to others, not to 
one who fears nothing." 

" By my faith, I believe so ; for thy 
front is bronzed by nature. Hark ye 
once more, mistress — what is your name 
and condition ?" 

" My condition I have told you ; I am 
a Mauritanian sorceress by profession, and 
my name is Zarah," replied the Eastern 

" But methinks that face, shape, and 
eyes," — said the duke, — "when didst thou 
pass for a dancing fairy ? Some such imp 
thou wert, not many days since." 

" My sister you may have seen — my 
twin sister ; but not me, my lord," an- 
swered Zarah. 

" Indeed," said the duke, "that dupli- 
cate of thine, if it was not thy very self, 
was possessed with a dumb spirit, as thou 
with a talking one. I am still in the mind 
that you are the same ; and that Satan, 
always so powerful with your sex, had art 
enough, on our former meeting, to make 
thee hold thy tongue." 

" Believe what you will of it, my lord," 
replied Zarah, " it cannot change the 
truth. And now, my lord, I bid you fare- 
well; have you any commands to Mau- 
ritania ?" 

" Tarry a little, my princess," said the 
duke ; " and remember, that you have 
voluntarily entered yourself as pledge for 
another, and are justly subjected to any 
penalty which it is my pleasure to exact. 
None must brave Buckingham with im- 

" I am in no hurry to depart, if your 
grace hath any commands for me." 



" What ! are you neither afraid of my 
resentment nor of my love, fair Zarah ?" 
said the duke. 

" Of neither, hy this glove/' answered 
the lady. " Your resentment must be a 
petty passion indeed, if it could stoop to 
such a helpless object as I am; and for 
your love — good lack ! good lack!" 

" And why good lack with such a tone 
of contempt, lady ? " said the duke, piqued 
in spite of himself. " Think you Buck- 
ingham cannot love, or has never been 
beloved in return ? " 

" He may have thought himself be- 
loved," said" the maiden ; " but by what 
slight creatures! — things whose heads 
could be rendered giddy by a playhouse 
rant, whose brains were only filled with 
red-heeled shoes and satin buskins, and 
who run altogether mad on the argument 
of a George and a star." 

" And are there no such frail fair ones 
in your climate, most scornful princess ?" 
said the duke. 

u There are," said the lady ; "but men 
rate them as parrots and monkeys — things 
without either sense or soul, head or 
heart. The nearness we bear to the sun 
has purified, while it strengthens, our 
passions. The icicles of your frozen cli- 
mate shall as soon hammer hot bars into 
ploughshares, as shall the foppery and 
folly of your pretended gallantry make an 
instant's impression on a breast like mine." 
11 You speak like one who knows what 
passion is," said the duke. " Sit down, 
fair lady, and grieve not that I detain 
you. Who can consent to part with a 
tongue of so much melody, or an eye of 
such expressive eloquence ! You have 
known, then, wdmt it is to love ?" 

" I know — no matter if by experience, 
or through the report of others ; but I do 
know, that to love as I would love, would 
be to yield not an iota to avarice, not one 
inch to vanity; not to sacrifice the slight- 
est feeling to interest or to ambition ; but 
to give up all to fidelity of heart and re- 
ciprocal affection." 

<; And how many women, think you, 
are capable of feeling such disinterested 
passion ?" 

" More, by thousands, than there are 
men who merit it," answered Zarah. 
" Alas ! how often do you see the female 
pale and wretched and degraded, still fol- 
lowing with patient constancy the foot- 
steps of some predominating tyrant, and 
submitting to all his injustice with the 
endurance of a faithful and misused 

spaniel, wiiich prizes a look from his 
master, though the surliest groom that 
ever disgraced humanity, more than all 
the pleasures which the world besides 
can furnish him ! Think what such would 
be to one who merited and repaid her de- 

" Perhaps the very reverse," said the 
duke ; " and for your simile, I can see 
little resemblance. I cannot charge my 
spaniel with any perfidy ; but for my mis- 
tresses — to confess truth, I must always 
be in a cursed hurry 7 if I would have the 
credit of changing them before they leave 

" And they serve you but rightly, my 
lord,'' answered the lady ; " for what are 
you ? — nay, frown not, for you must hear 
the truth for once. Nature has done its 
part, and made a fair outside, and courtly 
education hath added its share. You are 
noble, it is the accident of birth ; hand- 
some, it is the caprice of Nature ; gene- 
rous, because to give is more easy than to 
refuse ; well-apparelled, it is to the credit 
of your tailor ; w T ell-natured in the main, 
because you have youth and health ; brave, 
because to be otherwise were to be de- 
graded; and witty, because you cannot 
help it." 

The duke darted a glance on one of the 
large mirrors. " Noble, and handsome, 
and courtlike, generous, well-attired, good- 
humoured, brave and witty ! — You allow 
me more, madam, than I have the slight- 
est pretension to, and surely enough to 
make my way, at some point at least, to 
female favour." 

" I have neither allowed you a heart 
nor a head," said Zarah, calmly. " Nay, 
never redden as if you would fly at me. 
I say not but nature may have given you 
both ; but folly has confounded the one, 
and selfishness perverted the other. The 
man whom I call deserving the name, is 
one whose thoughts and exertions are 
for others rather than himself, — wdiose 
high purpose is adopted on just principles, 
and never abandoned while heaven or 
earth affords means of accomplishing it. 
He is one who will neither seek an in- 
direct advantage by a specious road, nor 
take an evil path to gain a real good pur- 
pose. Such a man w r ere one for whom a 
woman's heart should beat constant while 
he breathes, and break when he dies." 

She spoke with so much energy' that 
the water sparkled in her eyes, and her 
cheek coloured with the vehemence of her 



" You speak," said the duke, " as if you 
had yourself a heart which could pay the 
full tribute to the merit which you de- 
scribe so warmly." 

" And have I not ?" she said, laying her 
hand upon her bosom. " Here beats one 
that would bear me out in what I have 
said, whether in life or in death ! " 

" Were it in my power," said the duke, 
who began to get farther interested in his 
visitor than he could at first have thought 
possible, " Were it in my power to de- 
serve such faithful attachment, methinks 
it should be my care to requite it." 

" Your wealth, your titles, your reputa- 
tion as a gallant — all you possess were too 
little to merit such sincere affection." 

" Come, fair lady," said the duke, a 
good deal piqued, " do not be quite so dis- 
dainful. Bethink you, that if your love be 
as pure as coined gold, still a poor fellow 
like myself may offer you an equivalent in 
silver. The quantity of my affection must 
make up for its quality." 

" But I am not earning my affection to 
market, my lord; and therefore I need 
none of the base coin you offer in change 
for it." 

" How do I know that, my fairest ?" said 
the duke. " This is the realm of Paphos 
— you have invaded it, with what purpose 
you best know ; but I think with none 
consistent with your present assumption 
of cruelty. Come, come — eyes that are 
so intelligent can laugh with delight, as 
well as gleam with scorn and anger. 
You are here a waif on Cupid's manor, 
and I must seize on you in name of the 

" Do not think of touching me, my 
lord," said the lady. " Approach me not, 
if you would hope to learn the purpose of 
my being here. Your grace may suppose 
yourself a Solomon if you please ; but I 
am no travelling princess come from distant 
climes, either to flatter your pride or won- 
der at your glory." 

" A defiance, by Jupiter ! " said the 

" You mistake the signal," said the 
dark lady; " I came not here without 
taking sufficient precautions for my re- 

" You mouth it bravely," said the duke ; 
" but never fortress so boasted its resources 
but the garrison had some thoughts of sur- 
render. Thus I open the first parallel." 

They had been divided hitherto from 
each other by a long narrow table, which, 
placed in the recess of the large casement 

we have mentioned, had formed a sort of 
barrier on the lady's side, against the ad- 
venturous gallant. The duke went hastily 
to remove it as he spoke ; but, attentive to 
all his motions, his visitor instantly darted 
through the half-open window. 

Buckingham uttered a cry of horror 
and surprise, having no doubt, at first, that 
she had precipitated herself from a height 
of at least fourteen feet ; for so far the 
window was distant from the ground. But 
when he sprung to the spot, he perceived, 
to his astonishment, that she had effected 
her descent with equal agility and safety. 
The outside of this stately mansion was 
decorated with a quantity of carving, in 
the mixed state, betwixt the Gothic and 
the Grecian styles, which marks the age 
of Elizabeth and her successor ; and though 
the feat seemed a surprising one, the pro- 
jections of these ornaments were sufficient 
to afford footing to a creature so light and 
active, even in her hasty descent. 

Inflamed alike by mortification and 
curiosity, Buckingham at first entertained 
some thoughts of following her by the 
same dangerous route, and had actually 
got upon the sill of the window for that 
purpose ; and was contemplating what 
might be his next safe movement, when, 
from a neighbouring thicket of shrubs, 
amongst which his visitor had disappeared, 
he heard her chant a verse of a comic 
song, then much in fashion, concerning a 
despairing lover who had recourse to a 
precipice : — 

" But when he came near, 

Beholding how steep 
The sides did appear, 

And the bottom how deep ; 
Though his suit was rejected, 
He sadly reflected, 

That a lover forsaken 

A new love may get ; 
But a neck that 's once broken 

Can never be set." 

The duke could not help laughing, 
though much against his will, at the re- 
semblance which the verses bore to his 
own absurd situation, and, stepping back 
into the apartment, desisted from an at- 
tempt which might have proved danger- 
ous as well as ridiculous. He called his 
attendants, and contented himself with 
watching the little thicket, unwilling to 
think that a female, who had thrown her- 
self in a great measure into his way, 
meant absolutely to mortify him by a re- 

That question was determined in an in- 



stant. A form, wrapped in a mantle, with 
a slouched hat and shadowy plume, issued 
from the bushes, and was lost in a mo- 
ment amongst the ruins of ancient and of 

modern buildings, with which the de- 
mesne formerly termed York House was 
now encumbered in all directions. 

Sir Walter Scott. 


Was born on the 16th of December, 1775, at Steventon in Hampshire, of which 
parish her father was rector more than forty years. When past the age of seventy he 
left Steventon, and went with his family to reside at Bath. Upon his death Miss Austen 
removed with her mother and sister to Southampton, and thence in a short time to 
Chawton, a pleasant village in Hampshire. From Chawton she published her novels, 
without affixing her name to them. She died at Winchester on the 18th of July, 
1817, and was buried in the cathedral. 

She was lovely in person, of a sweet temper, modest, gentle, faultless as nearly as 
human nature can be. The character of her writings is thus given in the private diary 
of Sir Walter Scott :— 

" 1826, March 14. — Read again, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen's very 
finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That young lady had a talent for de- 
scribing the involvements, and feelings and characters of ordinary fife, which is to me 
the most wonderful I ever met with. The big bow-wow strain I can do myself like 
any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary common-place 
things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, 
is denied to me. What a pity such a gifted creature died so early ! " — LocJcMrVs 
Life of Scott, vol. vi. p. 264. 

She wrote Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Mansfield Park from 
which the pieces entitled Fanny Price and Fraternal Love are taken, Pride and Pre- 
judice which has given the third, and Persuasion which has supplied the two other 
extracts. Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were not published until after Miss 
Austen's death. 


Henry Crawford was gone above an 
horn- ; and when his sister, who had been 
waiting for him to walk with her in the 
garden, met him at last most impatiently in 
the sweep, and cried out " My dear Henry, 
where can you possibly have been all this 
time ?" he had only to say that he had been 
sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny. 

" Sitting with them an hour and a 
half ! " exclaimed Mary. 

But this was only the beginning of her 

" Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm 
within his, and walking along the sweep 
as if not knowing where he was ; "I 
could not get away sooner, Fanny looked 
so lovely ! I am quite determined, Mary. 
My mind is entirely made up. Will it 
astonish vou ? No : vou must be aware 

that T am quite determined to many Fanny 

" Fanny Price — wonderful — quite won- 
derful ! that Mansfield should have done 
so much for — that you should have found 
your fate in Mansfield ! but you are quite 
right, you could not have chosen better. 
There is not a better girl in the world, 
and you do not want for fortune ; and as 
to her connections, they are more than 
good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly 
some of the first people in this countiy. 
She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram ; that 
will be enough for the world. But go on, 
go on ; tell me more. What are your plans ? 
Does she know her own happiness ?" 

" No." 

" Va hat are you waiting for ?" 

" For — for very little more than oppor- 
tunity. Mary, she is not like her cousins, 
but I think I shall not ask in vain." 




" Oh no, you cannot. Were you even 
less pleasing; supposing her not to love you 
already (of which, however, I can have 
little doubt), you would be safe. The 
gentleness and gratitude of her disposition 
would secure her all your own immedi- 
ately. From my soul I do not think she 
would marry you without love ; that is, if 
there is a girl in the world capable of 
being uninfluenced by ambition, I can 
suppose it her; but ask her to love you, 
and she will never have the heart to re- 

As soon as her eagerness could rest in 
silence, he was as happy to tell as she 
could be to listen ; and a conversation fol- 
lowed almost as deeply interesting to her 
as to himself, though he had in fact no- 
thing to relate but his own sensations, 
nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms. 
Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's 
graces of manner and goodness of heart, 
w r ere the exhaustless theme. The gentle- 
ness, modesty, and sweetness of her cha- 
racter were warmly expatiated on ; that 
sweetness w f hich makes so essential a part 
of every woman's worth in the judgement 
of man, that though he sometimes loves 
where it is not, he can never believe it 
absent. Her temper he had good reason 
to depend on and to praise : he had often 
seen it tried. Was there one of the family, 
excepting Edmund, who had not in some 
way or other continually exercised her 
patience and forbearance ? Her affections 
were evidently strong. To see her with 
her brother ! What could more delight- 
fully prove that the w T armth of her heart 
was equal to its gentleness ? What could 
be more encouraging to a man who had 
her love in view ? Then, her understand- 
ing's, beyond every suspicion, quick and 
clear ; and her manners were the mirror 
of her own modest and elegant mind. 
Nor w r as this all. Henry Crawford had 
too much sense not to feel the worth of 
good principles in a wife, though he was 
too little accustomed to serious reflection 
to know them by their proper name ; but 
when he talked of her having such a 
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such 
a high notion of honour, and such an ob- 
servance of decorum as might warrant 
any man in the fullest dependence on her 
faith and integrity, he expressed what was 
inspired by the knowledge of her being 
well principled and religious. 

" I could so wholly and absolutely con- 
fide in her," said he, "and that is what I 

Well might his sister, believing as she 
really did that his opinion of Fanny Price 
was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in 
her prospects. 

" Had you seen her this morning, 
Mary," he continued, " attending with 
such ineffable sweetness and patience to 
all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, 
working with her, and for her ; her co- 
lour beautifully heightened as she leant 
over the w r ork, then returning to her seat 
to finish a note wiiich she was previously 
engaged in writing for that stupid woman's 
service, and all this with such unpretend- 
ing gentleness, so much as if it were a 
matter of course that she was not to have 
a moment at her own command ; her hair 
arranged as neatly as it always is, and one 
little curl falling forward as she wrote, 
which she now and then shook back ; and 
in the midst of all this, still speaking at 
intervals to me, or listening, and as if she 
liked to listen to what I said. Had you 
seen her so, Mary, you would not have 
implied the possibility of her power over 
my heart ever ceasing." 

" My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stop- 
ping short and smiling in his face, " how 
glad I am to see you so much in love ! it 
quite delights me. But what will Mrs. 
Rushworth and Julia say?" 

" I care neither what they say nor what 
they feel ; they will now see what sort of 
woman it is that can attach me, that can 
attach a man of sense. I wish the dis- 
covery may do them any good. And they 
will now see their cousin treated as she 
ought to be, and I wish they may be 
heartily ashamed of their own abominable 
neglect and unkindness." Jane Austen. 


At the end of a few days, circumstances 
arose which gave Fanny Price a degree of 
happiness, that disposed her to be pleased 
with everybody. William, her brother, the 
so long absent and dearly loved brother, 
was in England again. She had a letter 
from him herself, a few hurried happy 
lines, written as the ship came up Chan- 
nel, and sent into Portsmouth with the 
first boat that left the Antwerp, at anchor 
in Spithead ; and when Crawford walked 
up with the newspaper in his hand, which 
he had hoped would bring the first tidings, 
he found her trembling with joy over this 
letter, and listening with a glowing, grate- 



ful countenance to the kind invitation 
which her uncle was most collectedly dic- 
tating in reply. 

This dear William would soon be amongst 
them. There could be no doubt of his ob- 
taining leave of absence immediately, for 
he was still only a midshipman ; and as 
his parents, from living on the spot, mast 
already have seen him and be seeing him 
perhaps daily, his direct holidays might 
with justice be instantly given to the 
sister, who had been his best correspon- 
dent through a period of seven years, and 
the uncle, who had done most for his sup- 
port and advancement ; and accordingly 
the reply to her reply, fixing a very early 
day for his arrival, came as soon as pos- 
sible ; and scarcely ten days had passed 
since Fanny had been in the agitation of 
her first dinner-visit, when she found her- 
self in an agitation of a higher nature — 
watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the 
stairs, for the first sound of the carriage 
which was to bring her a brother. 

It came happily while she was thus 
waiting ; and there being neither cere- 
mony nor fearfulness to delay the moment 
of meeting, she was with him as he en- 
tered the house, and the first minutes of 
exquisite feeling had no interruption and 
no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly 
intent upon opening the proper doors 
could be called such. This was exactly 
what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been 
separately conniving at, as each proved to 
the other by the sympathetic alacrity with 
which they both advised Mrs. Norris's 
continuing where she was, instead of 
rushing out into the hall as soon as the 
noises of the arrival reached them. 

William and Fanny soon showed them- 
selves ; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure 
of receiving, in his protege, certainly a 
very different person from the one he had 
equipped seven years ago, but a young 
man of an open, pleasant countenance, 
and frank, unstudied, but feeling and re- 
spectful manners, and such as confirmed 
him his friend. 

It was long before Fanny could recover 
from the agitating happiness of such an 
hour as was formed by the last thirty 
minutes of expectation and the first of 
fruition ; it was some time even before 
her happiness could be said to make her 
happy, before the disappointment insepa- 
rable fi-om the alteration of person had 
vanished, and she could see in him the 
same William as before, and talk to him, 
as her heart had been yearning to do, 

; through many a past year. That time, 

j however, did gradually come, forwarded 

| by an affection on his side as warm as her 

! own, and much less encumbered by re- 

\ finement or self- distrust. She was the 

! first object of his love, but it was a love 

which his stronger spirits, and bolder 

temper, made it as natural for him to ex- 

! press as to feel. On the morrow they 

' were walking about together with true 

; enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow 

renewed a tete-a-tete, which Sir Thomas 

could not but observe with complacency, 

i even before Edmund had pointed it out 

j to him. 

Excepting the moments of peculiar de- 
light, which any marked or unlooked for 
instance of Edmund's consideration of 
her in the last few months had excited, 
Fanny had never known so much felicity 
in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, 
fearless intercourse with the brother and 
friend, who was opening all his heart to 
her, telling her all his hopes and fears, 
plans and solicitudes respecting that long- 
thought-of, dearly-earned, and justly-va- 
lued blessing of promotion — who could 
give her direct and minute information 
of the father and mother, brothers and 
i sisters, of whom she very seldom heard — 
j who was interested in all the comforts 
1 and all the little hardships of her home, 
j at Mansfield — ready to think of every 
; member of that home as she directed, or 
differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, 
and more noisy abuse of their Aunt Nor- 
ris ; and with whom (perhaps the dearest 
indulgence of the whole) all the evil and 
good of their earliest years could be gone 
! over again, and every former united pain 
| and pleasure retraced with the fondest, re- 
collection. An advantage this, a strength- 
I ener of love, in which even the conjugal 
; tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of 
I the same family, the same blood, with the 
same first associations and habits, have 
J some means of enjoyment in their pow r er, 
j which no subsequent connections can sup- 
| ply ; and it must be by a long and un- 
natural estrangement, by a divorce which 
no subsequent connection can justify, if 
such precious remains of the earliest at- 
tachments are ever entirely outlived. Too 
often, alas ! it is so. Fraternal love, some- 
times almost everything, is at others 
worse than nothing. But with William 
and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment 
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by 
no opposition of interest, cooled by no se- 
parate attachment, and feeling the influ- 




ence of time and absence only in its in- 

An affection so amiable was advancing 
each in the opinion of all who had hearts 
to value anything good. Henry Crawford 
was as much struck with it as any; he 
honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fond- 
ness of the young sailor, which led him 
to say, with his hand stretched towards 
Fanny's head, " Do you know, I begin to 
like that queer fashion already, though 
when I first heard of such things being 
done in England I could not believe it ; 
and when Mrs. Brown, and the other 
women at the commissioners at Gihraltar, 
appeared in the same trim, I thought 
they were mad ; but Fanny can reconcile 
me to anything ;" — and saw, with lively 
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, 
the brightness of her eye, the deep in- 
terest, the absorbed attention, while her 
brother was describing any of the immi- 
nent hazards, or terrific scenes, which 
such a period at sea must supply. 

It was a picture which Henry Craw- 
ford had moral taste enough to value. 
Fanny's attractions increased — increased 
twofold ; for the sensibility which beauti- 
fied her complexion and illumined her 
countenance was an attraction in itself. 
He was no longer in doubt of the capa- 
bilities of her heart. She had feeling, 
genuine feeling. It would be something 
to be loved by such a girl, to excite the 
first ardours of her young, unsophisticated 
mind ! She interested him more than he 
had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. 
His stay became indefinite. 

William was often called on by his 
uncle to be the talker. His recitals were 
amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but 
the chief object in seeking them was to 
understand the reciter, to know the young 
man by his histories ; and he listened to 
his clear, simple, spirited details with full 
satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of 
good principles, professional knowledge, 
energy, courage, and cheerfulness ; every- 
thing that could deserve or promise well. 
Young as he was, William had already 
seen a great deal ; he had been in the 
Mediterranean, in the West Indies, in the 
Mediterranean again ; had been often 
taken on shore by the favour of his cap- 
tain, and in the course of seven years had 
known every variety of danger which sea 
and war together could offer. With such 
means in his power he had a right to be 
listened to ; and though Mrs. Norris could 
fidget about the room, and disturb every- 

body in quest of two needlefuls of thread 
or a secondhand shirt-button, in the midst 
of her nephew's account of a shipwreck 
or an engagement, everybody else was 
attentive ; and even Lady Bertram could 
not hear of such horrors unmoved, or 
without sometimes lifting her eyes from 
her work to say, " Dear me ! how dis- 
agreeable ! I wonder anybody can ever 
go to sea." 

To Henry Crawford they gave a dif- 
ferent feeling ; he longed to have been at 
sea, and seen and done and suffered as 
much. His heart was warmed, his fancy 
fired, and he felt the highest respect for a 
lad who, before he was twenty, had gone 
through such bodily hardships, and given 
such proofs of mind. The glory of he- 
roism, of usefulness, of exertion, of en- 
durance, made his own habits of selfish 
indulgence appear in shameful contrast; 
and he wished he had been a William 
Price, distinguishing himself and working 
his way to fortune and consequence with 
so much self-respect and happy ardour, 
instead of what he was ! Jane Austen. 


During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely 
spoke at all ; but when the servants were 
withdrawn, he thought it time to have 
some conversation with his guest, and 
therefore started a subject in which he 
expected him to shine, by observing that 
he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. 
Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to 
his wishes, and consideration for his com- 
fort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Ben- 
net could not have chosen better. Mr. 
Collins was eloquent in her praise. The 
subject elevated him to more than usual 
solemnity of manner; and with a most 
important aspect, he protested that " he 
had never in his life witnessed such be- 
haviour in a person of rank — such affa- 
bihty and condescension, as he had him- 
self experienced from Lady Catherine; 
she had been graciously pleased to approve 
of both the discourses which he had al- 
ready had the honour of preaching before 
her ; she had also asked him twice to dine 
at Bosings, and had sent for him only the 
Saturday before, to make up her pool of 
quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine 
was reckoned proud by many people ; he 
knew that he had never seen anything but 
affability in her ; she had always spoken 



to him as she would to any other gentle- 
man ; she made not the smallest ohjection 
to his joining in the society of the neigh- 
bourhood, nor to his leaving his parish 
occasionally for a week or two to visit his 
relations. She had even condescended to 
advise him to marry as soon as he could, 
provided he chose with discretion ; and 
had once paid him a visit in his humble 
parsonage, where she had perfectly ap- 
proved all the alterations he had been 
making, and had even vouchsafed to sug- 
gest some herself — some shelves in the 
closets up-stairs." 

" That is all very proper and civil, I am 
6ure," said Mrs. Bennet, " and I dare say 
she is a very agreeable woman. It is a 
pity that great ladies in general are not 
more like her. Does she live near you, 
sir ?" 

"The garden in which stands my humble 
abode is separated only by a lane from 
Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." 

" I think you said she was a widow, 
sir ; has she any family ?" 

" She has one only daughter, the heir- 
ess of Rosings, and of very extensive pro- 

' ; Ah," cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her 
head, " then she is better off than many 
girls ; and what sort of young lady is 
she ? Is she handsome ?" 

" She is a most charming young lady, 
indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, 
in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is 
far superior to the handsomest of her sex, 
because there is that in her features which 
marks the young woman of distinguished 
birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly 
constitution, which has prevented her 
making that progress in many accom- 
plishments which she could not other- 
wise have failed of, as I am informed by 
the lady who superintended her educa- 
tion, and who still resides with them ; 
but she is perfectly amiable, and often 
condescends to drive by my humble abode 
in her little phaeton and ponies." 

" Has she been presented ? I do not 
remember her name among the ladies at 

11 Her indifferent state of health unhap- 
pily prevents her being in town ; and by 
that means, as I told Lady Catherine my- 
self one day, has deprived the British 
court of its brightest ornament. Her 
ladyship seemed pleased with the idea ; 
and you may imagine that I am happy on 
every occasion to offer these little deli- 
cate compliments, which are always ac- 

ceptable to ladies. I have more than 
once observed to Lady Catherine, that her 
charming daughter seemed born to be a 
duchess ; and that the most elevated rank, 
instead of giving her consequence, would 
be adorned by her. These are the kind 
of little things which please her ladyship, 
and it is a sort of attention which I con- 
ceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." 

" You judge very properly," said Mr. 
Bennet ; " and it is happy for you that you 
possess the talent of nattering with deli- 
cacy. May I ask whether these pleasing 
attentions proceed from the impulse of 
the moment, or are the result of previous 

" They arise chiefly from what is pass- 
ing at the time ; and though I sometimes 
amuse myself with suggesting and arran- 
ging such little elegant compliments as 
may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I al- 
ways wish to give them as unstudied an ab- 
as possible." 

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully 
answered. His cousin was as absurd as 
he had hoped; and he listened to him 
with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining 
at the same time the most resolute com- 
posure of countenance, and, except in an 
occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring 
no partner in his pleasure. 

By tea-time, however, the dose had been 
enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take 
his guest into the drawing-room again, 
and when tea was over, glad to invite him 
to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins 
readily assented, and a book was pro- 
duced; but on beholding it (for every- 
thing announced it to be from a circu- 
lating library) he started back, and beg- 
ging pardon, protested that he never read 
novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia 
exclaimed. Other books were produced, 
and after some deliberation he chose For- 
dyce's sermons. Lydia gaped as he open- 
ed the volume ; and before he had, with 
very monotonous solemnity, read three 
pages, she interrupted him with, 

" Do you know, mamma, that my uncle 
Phillips talks of turning away Richard? 
and if he does, Colonel Foster will hire 
him. My aunt told me so herself on Satur- 
day. I shall walk to Meriton tomorrow 
to hear more about it, and to ask when 
Mr. Denny comes back from town." 

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters 
to hold her tongue ; but Mr. Collins, much 
offended, laid aside his book, and said, — 

" I have often observed how little young 
ladies are interested by books of a serious 



stamp, though written solely for their 
benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for 
certainly there can be nothing so advan- 
tageous to them as instruction. But I will 
no longer importune my young cousin." 

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered 
himself as his antagonist at backgammon. 
Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, ob- 
serving that he acted very wisely in leav- 
ing the girls to their own trifling amuse- 
ments. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters 
apologised most civilly for Lydia's inter- 
ruption, and promised that it should not 
occur again, if he would resume his book ; 
but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that 
he bore his young cousin no ill will, and 
should never resent her behaviour as any 
affront, seated himself at another table 
with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for back- 
gammon. Jane Austen. 


Captain Frederic Wentworth being made 
commander, in consequence of the action 
off St. Domingo, and not immediately 
employed, had come into Somersetshire 
in the summer of 1806, and having no 
parent living, found a home for half a 
year at Monkford. He was at that time 
a remarkably fine young man, with a great 
deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy ; 
and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with 
gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. 
Half the sum of attraction, on either side, 
might have been enough, for he had no- 
thing to do, and she had hardly anybody 
to love ; but the encounter of such lavish 
recommendations could not fail. They 
were gradually acquainted, and when ac- 
quainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It 
would be difficult to say which had seen 
highest perfection in the other, or which 
had been the happiest ; she in receiving 
his declarations and proposals, or he in 
having them accepted. 

A short period of exquisite felicity fol- 
lowed, and but a short one. Troubles 
soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied 
to, without actually withholding his con- 
sent, or saying it should never be, gave it 
all the negative of great astonishment, 
great coldness, great silence, and a pro- 
fessed resolution of doing nothing for his 
daughter. He thought it a very degrading 
alliance ; and Lady Russell, though with 
more tempered and pardonable pride, re- 
ceived it as a most unfortunate one. 

Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, 
beauty, and mind, to throw herself away 
at nineteen ; involve herself at nineteen 
in an engagement with a young man who 
had nothing but himself to recommend 
him, and no hopes of attaining affluence 
but in the chances of a most uncertain 
profession, and no connections to secure 
even his farther rise in that profession, 
would be, indeed, a throwing away, which 
she grieved to think of. Anne Elliot, so 
young, known to so few, to be snatched 
off by a stranger without alliance or for- 
tune ; or rather sunk by him into a state 
of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing 
dependence. It must not be, if by any 
fair interference of friendship, any repre- 
sentations from one who had almost a 
mother's love and mother's rights, it could 
be prevented. 

Captain Wentworth had no fortune. 
He had been lucky in his profession, but 
spending freely what had come freely, had 
realized nothing. But he was confident 
that he should soon be rich ; full of life 
and ardour, he knew that he should soon 
have a ship, and soon be on a station that 
would lead to everything he wanted. He 
had always been lucky ; he knew he should 
be so still. Such confidence, powerful in 
its ow 7 n w r armth, and bewitching in the 
wit which often expressed it, must have 
been enough for Anne ; but Lady Russell 
saw it very differently. His sanguine 
temper and fearlessness of mind operated 
very differently on her. She saw in it 
but an aggravation of the evil. It only 
added a dangerous character to himself. 
He was brilliant ; he was headstrong. 
Lady Russell had little taste for wit; and 
of anything approaching to imprudence a 
horror. She deprecated the connection 
in every light. 

Such opposition as these feelings pro- 
duced, was more than Anne could combat. 
Young and gentle as she was, it might yet 
have been possible to withstand her father's 
ill will, though unsoftened by one kind 
word or look on the part of her sister ; 
but Lady Russell, whom she had always 
loved and relied on, could not with such 
steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness 
of manner, be continually advising her in 
vain. She was persuaded to believe the 
engagement a wrong thing, indiscreet, im- 
proper, hardly capable of success, and not 
deserving it. But it was not a merely sel- 
fish caution, under which she acted, in 
putting an end to it : had she not ima- 
gined herself consulting his good, even 



more than her own, she could hardly have 
given him up. The belief of being pru- 
dent and self-denying, principally for his 
advantage, was her chief consolation under 
the misery of a parting — a final parting ; 
and every consolation was required, for 
she had to encounter all the additional 
pain of opinions on his side, totally un- 
convinced and unbending, and of his feel- 
ing himself ill-used by so forced a relin- 
quishment. He had left the country in 

A few months had seen the beginning 
and the end of their acquaintance; but not 
with a few months ended Anne's share of 
suffering from it. Her attachment and 
regrets had, for a long time, clouded every 
enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of 
bloom and spirits had been their lasting 

More than seven years were gone since 
this little history of sorrowful interest had 
reached its close, and time had softened 
down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar 
attachment to him, but she had been too 
dependent on time alone ; no aid had 
been given in change of place (except in 
one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), 
or in any novelty or enlargement of society. 
No one had ever come within the Kel- 
lynch circle who could bear a comparison 
with Frederic Wentworth, as he stood in 
her memory. No second attachment, the 
only thoroughly natural, happy, and suffi- 
cient cure, at her time of life, had been 
possible to the nice tone of her mind, the 
fastidiousness of her taste, in the small 
limits of the society around them. She 
had been solicited when ahout two-and- 
twenty, to change her name by the young 
man who not long afterwards found a more 
willing mind in her younger sister, and 
Lady Russell had lamented her refusal ; 
for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son 
of a man, whose landed property and gene- 
ral importance were second, in that coun- 
try, oniy to Sir Walter's, and of good cha- 
racter and appearance ; and however Lady 
Russell might have asked yet for some- 
thing more, while Anne was nineteen, she 
would have rejoiced to see her at twenty- 
two so respectably removed from the par- 
tialities and injustice of her father's house, 
and settled so permanently near herself. 
But in this case Anne had left nothing for 
advice to do, and though Lady Russell, as 
satisfied as ever with her own discretion, 
never wished the past undone, she began 
now to have the anxiety which borders on 
hopelessness for Anne's being tempted by 

some man of talents and independence, to 
enter a state for which she held her to be 
peculiarly fitted by her warm affections 
and domestic habits. 

They knew not each other's opinion, 
either its constancy or its change, on the 
one leading point of Anne's conduct, for 
the subject was never alluded to ; but 
Anne at seven-and-twenty thought very 
differently from what she had been made 
to think at nineteen. She did not blame 
Lady Russell ; she did not blame herself 
for having been guided by her, but she 
felt that were any young person in similar 
circumstances to apply to her for counsel, 
they would never receive any of such cer- 
tain immediate wretchedness, such uncer- 
tain future good. She was persuaded that 
under every disadvantage of disapproba- 
tion at home, and every anxiety attending 
his profession, all their probable fears, 
delays, and disappointments, she should yet 
have been a happier woman in maintain- 
ing the engagement, than she had been in 
the sacrifice of it : and this she fully be- 
lieved, had the usual share, had even more 
than an usual share of all such solicitudes 
and suspense been theirs, without refer- 
ence to the actual results of their case, 
which, as it happened, would have be- 
stowed earlier prosperity than could be 
reasonably calculated on. All his san- 
guine expectations, all his confidence, had 
been justified. His genius and ardour 
had seemed to foresee and to command 
his prosperous path. He had very soon 
after their engagement ceased, got employ, 
and all that he had told her would follow 
had taken place. He had distinguished 
himself and early gained the other step in 
rank, and must now by successive cap- 
tures have made a handsome fortune. She 
had only navy lists and newspapers for her 
authority, but she could not doubt his 
being rich, and in favour of his constancy 
she had no reason to believe him married. 

How eloquent could Anne Elliot have 
been ! how eloquent, at least, were her 
wishes on the side of early warm attach- 
ment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, 
against that over-anxious caution which 
seems to insult exertion and distrust Pro- 
vidence ! She had been forced into pru- 
dence in her youth ; she learned romance 
as she grew older, — the natural sequel of 
an unnatural beginning. Jane Austen. 




" Look here," said he, unfolding a par- 
cel in his hand, and displaying a small 
miniature painting, " Do you know who 
that is ?" 

" Certainly, Captain Benwick." 

" Yes, and you may guess who it is for. 
But," in a deep tone, " it was not done 
for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember 
our walking together at Lyme, and griev- 
ing for him ? I little thought then — but 
no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. 
He met with a clever young German 
artist at the Cape, and in compliance with 
a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, 
and was bringing it home for her. And 
I have now the charge of getting it pro- 
perly set for another ! It was a commis- 
sion to me ! but who else was there to 
employ ? I hope I can allow for him. I 
am not sorry indeed to make it over to 
another. He undertakes it :" looking to- 
wards Captain Wentworth, " he is writing 
about it now." And with a quivering lip 
he wound up the whole by adding, " Poor 
Fanny ! she would not have forgotten him 
so soon." 

" No," replied Anne in a low feeling 
voice, " that I can easily believe." 

" It was not in her nature. She doted 
on him." 

" It would not be the nature of any 
woman who truly loved." 

Captain Harville smiled, as much as to 
say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" 
and she answered the question, smiling 
also, " Yes. We certainly do not forget 
you so soon as you forget us. It is, per- 
haps, our fate rather than our merit. We 
cannot help ourselves. We live at home, 
quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon 
us. You are forced on exertion ; you 
have always a profession, pursuits, busi- 
ness of some sort or other, to take you 
back into the w r orld immediately, and con- 
tinual occupation and change soon weaken 

" Granting your assertion that the world 
does all this so soon for men (which, 
however, I do not think I shall grant), it 
does not apply to Benwick. He has not 
been forced upon any exertion. The peace 
turned him on shore at the very moment, 
and he has been living with us, in our 
little family circle, ever since." 

" True," said Anne, " very true ; I did 
not recollect ; but what shall we say now, 
Captain Harville ? If the change be not 

from outward circumstances, it must be 
from within ; it must be nature, man's 
nature, which has done the business for 
Captain Benwick." 

" No, no, it is not man's nature. I will 
not allow it to be more man's nature than 
woman's to be inconstant and forget those 
they do love, or have loved. I believe 
the reverse. I believe in a true analogy 
between our bodily frames and our men- 
tal ; and that as our bodies are the strong- 
est, so are our feelings ; capable of bear- 
ing most rough usage, and riding out the 
heaviest weather." 

" Your feelings may be the strongest," 
replied Anne, "but the same spirit of 
analogy will authorise me to assert that 
ours are the most tender. Man is more 
robust than woman, but he is not longer 
lived, which exactly explains my view of 
the nature of their attachments. Nay, it 
would be too hard upon you if it were 
otherwise. You have difficulties and pri- 
vations, and dangers enough to struggle 
with. You are always labouring and toil- 
ing, exposed to every risk and hardship. 
Your home, country, friends, all united. 
Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be 
called your own. It would be too hard, 
indeed," (with a faltering voice) " if wo- 
man's feelings were to be added to all 

" We shall never agree upon this ques- 
tion," Captain Harville was beginning to 
say, when a slight noise called their atten- 
tion to Captain Wentworth's hitherto per- 
fectly quiet division of the room. It was 
nothing more than that his pen had fallen 
down ; but Anne was startled at finding 
him nearer than she had supposed, and 
half inclined to suspect that the pen had 
only fallen because he had been occupied 
by them, striving to catch sounds, which 
yet she did not think he could have caught. 

" Have you finished your letter ?" said 
Captain Harville. 

" Not quite — a few lines more. I shall 
have done in five minutes." 

" There is no hurry on my side. I am 
only ready whenever you are. I am in 
very good anchorage here," smiling at 
Anne, " well supplied, and want for no- 
thing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, 
Miss Elliot," lowering his voice, " as I 
was saying, we shall never agree, I sup- 
pose, upon this point. No man and wo- 
man would, probably. But let me ob- 
serve that all histories are against you — 
all stories, prose and verse. If I had such 
a memory as Benwick, I could bring you 



fifty quotations in a moment on my side 
of the argument, and I do not think I ever 
opened a book in my life -which had not 
something to say upon woman's incon- 
stancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of 
woman's fickleness. But, perhaps, you 
will say, these were all written by men." 

" Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you 
please, no reference to examples in books. 
Men have had every advantage of us in 
telling their own story. Education has 
been theirs in so much higher a degree ; 
the pen has been in their hands. I will 
not allow books to prove anything." 

" But how shall we prove anything?" 

" We never shall. We never can ex- 
pect to prove anything upon such a point. 
It is a difference of opinion which does 
not admit of proof. We each begin, pro- 
bably, with a little bias towards our own 
sex, and upon that bias build every cir- 
cumstance in favour of it which has oc- 
curred within our own c ircle ; many of 
which circumstances (perhaps those very 
cases which strike us the most) may be 
precisely such as cannot be brought for- 
ward without betraying a confidence, or, 
in some respect, saying what should not 
be said." 

" Ah !" cried Captain Harville, in atone 
of strong feeling, " if I could but make 
you comprehend what a man suffers when 
he takes a last look at his wife and chil- 
dren, and watches the boat that he has 
sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, 
and then turns away and says, ' God 
knows whether we ever meet again !' And j 
then, if I could convey to you the glow of j 
his soul when he does see them again, 
when coming back after a twelvemonth's \ 
absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into i 
another port, he calculates how soon it be ' 
possible to get them there, pretending to 
deceive himself, and saying, ' They cannot 
be here till such a day,' but all the while 
hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and 
seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven 
had given them wings by many hours 
sooner still. If I could explain to you all 
this, and all that a man can bear and do, 
and glories to do, for the sake of these 
treasures of his existence ! I speak, you 
know, only of such men as have hearts," 
pressing his own with emotion. 

" Oh !" cried Anne, eagerly, " I hope 
I do justice to all that is felt by you, and 
by those who resemble you. God forbid 
that I should undervalue the warm and 
faithful feelings of any of my fellow- 
creatures. I should deserve utter con- 

tempt if I dared to suppose that true at- 
tachment and constancy were known only 
by woman. No, I believe you capable of 
even-thing great and good in your married 
lives. I believe you equal to every im- 
portant exertion, and to every domestic 
forbearance, so long as — if I may be al- 
lowed the expression — so long as you have 
an object. I mean while the woman you 
love lives, and fives for you. All the pri- 
vilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a 
very enviable one, you need not covet it), 
is that of loving longest, when existence 
or when hope is gone." 

She could not immediately have uttered 
another sentence ; her heart was too full, 
her breath too much oppressed. 

" You are a good soul," cried Captain 
Harville, putting his hand on her arm 
quite affectionately. M There is no quar- 
relling with you. And when I think of 
Benwick my tongue is tied." 

Their attention was called towards the 
others. Mrs. Croft was taking leave. 

" Here, Frederic, you and I part com- 
pany, I believe," said she. " I am going 
home, and you have an engagement with 
your friend. To-night we may have the 
pleasure of all meeting again, at your 
party," turning to Anne. " We had your 
sister's card yesterday, and I understood 
Frederic had a card too, though I did not 
see it — and you are disengaged, Frederic, 
are you not, as well as ourselves ?" 

Captain Wentworth was folding up a 
letter in great haste, and either could not 
or would not answer fully. 

"Yes," said he, "very tree; here we 
separate, but Harville and I shall soon be 
after you ; that is, Harville, if you are 
ready, I am in half a minute. I know you 
will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at 
your service in half a minute." 

Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Went- 
worth, having sealed his letter with great 
rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even 
a hurried, agitated air, which shewed im- 
patience to be gone. Anne knew not how 
to understand it. She had the kindest 
"Good morning, God bless you!" from 
Captain Harville, but from him not a 
word nor a look ! He had passed out of 
the room without a look ! 

She had only time, however, to move 
closer to the table where he had been 
writing, when footsteps were heard re- 
turning : the door opened ; it was him- 
self. He begged their pardon, but he had 
forgotten his gloves, and instantly cross- 
ing the room to the writing table, and 

D 5 



standing with his hack towards Mrs. Mus- 
grove, he drew out a letter from under 
the scattered paper, placed it hefore Anne 
with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her 
for a moment, and hastily collecting his 
gloves, was again out of the room, almost 
before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his 
being in it — the work of an instant ! 

The revolution which one instant had 
made in Anne was almost beyond expres- 
sion. The letter, with a direction hardly 
legible, to " Miss A. E ," was evi- 
dently the one which he had been folding 
so hastily. While supposed to be writing 
only to Captain Benwick, he had been 
also addressing her ! On the contents of 
that letter depended all which this world 
could do for her ! Anything was possible, 
anything might be defied rather than sus- 
pense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrange- 
ments of her own at her own table ; to 
their protection she must trust, and sink- 
ing into the chair which he had occupied, 
succeeding to the very spot where he had 
leaned and written, her eyes devoured the 
following words : — 

" I can listen no longer in silence. I 
must speak to you by such means as are 
within my reach. You pierce my soul. 
I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not 
that I am too late, that such precious 
feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself 
to you again with a heart even more your 
own than when you almost broke it eight 
years and a half ago. Dare not say that 
man forgets sooner than woman, that his 
love has an earlier death. I have loved 
none but you. Unjust I may have been, 
weak and resentful I have been, but never 
inconstant. You alone have brought me 
to Bath. For you alone I think and 
plan. Have you not seen this ? Can you 
fail to have understood my wishes ? I 
had not waited even these ten days, could 
I have read your feelings, as I think you 
must have penetrated mine. I can hardly 
write. I am every instant hearing some- 
thing which overpowers me. You sink 

your voice, but I can distinguish the tones 
of that voice when they would be lost on 
others. Too good, too excellent creature ! 
You do us justice, indeed. You do be- 
lieve that there is true attachment and 
constancy among men. Believe it to be 
most fervent, most undeviating, in 

" I must go, uncertain of my fate ; but 
I shall return hither, or follow your party 
as soon as possible. A word, a look, will 
be enough to decide whether I enter your 
father's house this evening, or never." 
* * * * 

Soon words enough had passed between 
them to decide their direction towards 
the comparatively quiet and retired gravel 
walk, where the power of conversation 
would make the present hour a blessing 
indeed, and prepare it for all the immor- 
tality which the happiest recollections of 
their own future lives could bestow. 
There they exchanged again those feelings 
and those promises which had once be- 
fore seemed to secure everything, but 
which had been followed by so many, 
many years of division and estrangement. 
There they returned again into the past, 
more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their 
reunion, than when it had been first pro- 
jected; more tender, more tried, more 
fixed in a knowledge of each other's cha- 
racter, truth, and attachment; more equal 
to act, more justified in acting. And 
there, as they slowly paced^the gradual 
ascent, heedless of every group around 
them, seeing neither sauntering politi- 
cians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, 
nor nursery maids and children, they 
could indulge in those retrospections and 
acknowledgements, and especially in those 
explanations of what had directly pre- 
ceded the present moment, which Were so 
poignant and so ceaseless in interest. 

All the little variations of the last week 
were gone through ; and of yesterday and 
to-day there could scarcely be an end. 

Jane Austen. 



When Leonard had resided three years 
at Oxford, one of his college-friends in- 
vited him to pass the long vacation at his 

father's house, which happened to be 
within an easy ride of Salisbury. One 
morning therefore he rode to that city, 
rung at Miss Trewbody's door, and having 
sent in his name, was admitted into the 



parlour, where there was no one to re- 
ceive him, while Miss Trewbody adjusted 
her head-dress at the toilette before she 
made her appearance. Her feelings while 
she was thus employed were not of the 
pleasantest kind toward this unexpected 
guest ; and she was prepared to accost 
him with a reproof for his extravagance 
in undertaking so long a journey, and 
with some mortifying questions concern- 
ing the business which brought him there. 
But this amiable intention was put to 
flight when Leonard, as soon as she en- 
tered the room, informed her that having 
accepted an invitation into that neigh- 
bourhood from his friend and fellow-col- 
legian, the son of Sir Lambert Bowles, he 
had taken the earliest opportunity of 
coming to pay his respects to her, and 
acknowledging his obligations, as bound 
alike by duty and inclination. The name 
of Sir Lambert Bowles acted upon Miss 
Trewbody like a charm ; and its molli- 
fying effect was not a little aided by the 
tone of her nephew's address, and the 
sight of a fine youth in the first bloom of 
manhood, whose appearance and manners 
were such that she could not be surprised 
at the introduction he had obtained into 
one of the first families in the county. 
The scowl therefore which she brought 
into the room upon her brow passed in- 
stantly away, and was succeeded by so 
gracious an aspect, that Leonard, if he 
had not divined the cause, might have 
mistaken this gleam of sunshine for fair 

A cause which Miss Trewbody could 
not possibly suspect had rendered her 
nephew's address thus conciliatory. Had 
he expected to see no other person in 
that house, the visit would have been 
performed as an irksome obligation, and 
his manner would have appeared as cold 
and formal as the reception which he an- 
ticipated. But Leonard had not forgotten 
the playmate and companion with whom 
the happy years of Ms childhood had been 
passed. Young as he was at their sepa- 
ration, his character had taken its stamp 
during those peaceful years, and the im- 
pression which it then received was in- 
delible. Hitherto hope had never been 
to him so delightful as memory. His 
thoughts wandered back into the past 
more frequently than they took flight into 
the future ; and the favourite form which 
his imagination called up was that of the 
sweet child, who in winter partook his 
bench in the chimney corner, and in sum- 

mer sate with him in the porch, and strung 
the fallen blossoms of jessamine upon 
stalks of grass. The snow-drop and the 
crocus reminded him of their little garden, 
the primrose of their sunny orchard-bank, 
and the blue-bells and the cowslips of 
the fields wherein they were allowed to 
run wild and gather them in the merry 
month of May. Such as she then was 
he saw her frequently in sleep, with her 
blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, and flaxen 
curls : and in his day-dreams he some- 
times pictured her to himself such as he 
supposed she now might be, and dressed 
up the image with all the magic of ideal 
beauty. His heart, therefore, was at his 
lips when he inquired for his cousin. It 
was not without something like fear and 
an apprehension of disappointment that 
he awaited her appearance ; and he was 
secretly condemning himself for the ro- 
mantic folly which he had encouraged, 
when the door opened and a creature 
came in, — less radiant, indeed, but more 
winning than his fancy had created, for 
the loveliness of earth and reality was 
about her. 

" Margaret," said Miss Trewbody, " do 
you remember your cousin Leonard ?" 

Before she coidd answer Leonard had 
taken her hand : " 'T is a long while, Mar- 
garet, since we parted ! — ten years ! — But 
I have not forgotten the parting, nor the 
blessed days of our childhood." 

She stood trembling like an aspen leaf, 
and looked wistfully in his face for a 
moment, then hung down her head 
without power to utter a word in reply. 
But he felt her tears fall fast upon his 
hand, and felt also that she returned its 

Leonard had some difficulty to com- 
mand himself, so as to bear a part in 
conversation with his aunt, and keep his 
eyes and his thoughts from wandering. 
He accepted however her invitation to 
stay and dine with her with undissembled 
satisfaction, and the pleasure was not a 
little heightened when she left the room 
to give some necessary orders in conse- 
quence. Margaret still sate trembling 
and in silence. He took her hand, prest 
it to his lips, and said in a low earnest 
voice, " Dear, dear Margaret ! " She raised 
her eyes, and fixing them upon him with 
one of those looks, the perfect remem- 
brance of which can never be effaced 
from the heart to which they have been 
addressed, replied in a lower but not less 
earnest tone, " Dear Leonard," and from 



that moment their lot was sealed for time 
and for eternity. 

I will not describe the subsequent in- 
terviews between Leonard and his cousin, 
short and broken but precious as they 
were; nor that parting one in which 
hands were plighted, with the sure and 
certain knowledge that hearts had been 
interchanged. Kemembrance will enable 
some of my readers to portray the scene, 
and then perhaps a sigh may be heaved 
for the days that are gone : Hope will 
picture it to others, — and with them the 
sigh will be for the days that are to 

There was not that indefinite deferment 
of hope in this case at which the heart 
sickens. Leonard had been bred up in 
poverty from his childhood: a parsimo- 
nious allowance, grudgingly bestowed, 
had contributed to keep him frugal at 
College, by calling forth a pardonable if 
not a commendable sense of pride in aid 
of a worthier principle. He knew that 
he could rely upon himself for frugality, 
industry, and a cheerful as well as a con- 
tented mind. He had seen the miserable 
state of bondage in which Margaret ex- 
isted with her aunt, and his resolution 
was made to deliver her from that bond- 
age as soon as he could obtain the 
smallest benefice on which it was possible 
for them to subsist. They agreed to live 
rigorously within their means, however 
poor, and put their trust in Providence. 
They could not be deceived in each other, 
for they had grown up together ; and they 
knew that they were not deceived in 
themselves. Their love had the freshness 
of youth, but prudence and forethought 
were not wanting ; the resolution which 
they had taken brought with it peace of 
mind, and no misgiving was felt in either 
heart when they prayed for a blessing 
upon their purpose. In reality it had 
already brought a blessing with it ; and 
this they felt ; for love, when it deserves 
that name, produces in us what may be 
called a regeneration of its own, — a se- 
cond birth, — dimly, but yet in some de- 
gree resembling that which is effected by 
Divine love when its redeeming work is 
accomplished in the soul. 

Leonard returned to Oxford happier 
than all this world's wealth or this world's 
honours could have made him. He had 
now a definite and attainable hope, — an 
object in life which gave to life itself a 
value. For Margaret, the world no longer 
seemed to her like the same earth which 

she had till theu inhabited. Hitherto 
she had felt herself a forlorn and solitary 
creature, without a friend ; and the sweet 
sounds and pleasant objects of nature had 
imparted as little cheerfulness to her as 
to the debtor who sees green fields in 
sunshine from his prison, and hears the 
lark singing at liberty. Her heart was 
open now to all the exhilarating and all 
the softening influences of birds, fields, 
flowers, vernal suns and melodious streams. 
She was subject to the same daily and 
hourly exercise of meekness, patience, 
and humility ; but the trial was no longer 
painful ; with love in her heart, and hope 
and sunshine in her prospect, she found 
even a pleasure in contrasting her present 
condition with that which was in store 
for her. 

In these our days every young lady 
holds the pen of a ready writer, and 
words flow from it as fast as it can indent 
its zigzag lines, according to the reformed- 
system of writing, — which said system 
improves handwritings by making them 
all alike and all illegible. At that time 
women wrote better and spelt worse : but 
letter-writing was not one of their accom- 
plishments. It had not yet become one 
of the general pleasures and luxuries of 
life, — perhaps the greatest gratification 
which the progress of civilization has 
given us. There was then no mail coach 
to waft a sigh across the country at the 
rate of eight miles an hour. Letters 
came slowly and with long intervals be- 
tween ; but when they came, the happiness 
which they imparted to Leonard and Mar- 
garet lasted during the interval, — however 
long. To Leonard it was an exhilarant 
and a cordial which rejoiced and strength- 
ened him. He trod the earth with a 
lighter and more elated movement on the 
day when he received a letter from Mar- 
garet, as if he felt himself invested with an 
importance which he had never possessed 
till the happiness of another human being 
was inseparably associated with his own ; 

So proud a thing it was for him to wear 

Love's golden chain, 
With which it is best freedom to be bound. 

Happy, indeed, if there be happiness on 
earth, as that same sweet poet says, is he, 

Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind, 
Where fairest virtues fairest beauties grace, 

Then in himself such store of worth doth find, 
That he deserves to find so gcod a place. 

Love, they say, invented the art of 
tracing likenesses, and thereby led the 
way to portrait painting. Some painters 



it has certainly made; whether it ever 
made a poet may be doubted : but there 
can be no doubt that under its inspiration 
more bad poetry has been produced than 
by any, or all other causes. 

But, on the other hand, if love, simple 
love, is the worst of poets, that same 
simple love is, beyond comparison, the 
best of letter writers. In love-poems 
conceits are distilled from the head; in 
love-letters feelings flow from the heart ; 
and feelings are never so feelingly uttered, 
affection never so affectionately expressed, 
truth never so truly spoken, as in such a 
correspondence. Oh, if the disposition 
which exists at such times were sustained 
through life, marriage would then be in- 
deed the perfect union, the " excellent 
mystery" which our Father requires from 
those who enter into it, that it should be 
made ; and which it might always be, 
under His blessing, were it not for the 
misconduct of one or the other party, or 
of both. If such a disposition were main- 
tained, — "if the love of husbands and 
wives were grounded (as it then would 
be) in virtue and religion, it would make 
their lives a kind of heaven on earth ; it 
would prevent all those contentions and 
brawlings which are the great plagues of 
families, and the lesser hell in passage to 
the greater." Let no reader think the 
worse of that sentence because it is taken 
from that good homely old book, the 
better for being homely, entitled The 
Whole Duty of Man. 

The dream of life indeed can last with 
none of us, — 

As if the thing beloved were all a saint, 
And every place she enter' d were a shrine: 

but it must be our own fault, when it has 
passed away, if the realities disappoint us : 
they are not " weary, stale, flat and un- 
profitable," unless we ourselves render 
them so. The preservation of the species 
is not the sole end for which love was 
implanted in the human heart ; that end 
the Almighty might as easily have effected 
by other means : not so the developement 
of our moral nature, which is its higher 

Not lovers alone, but husbands and 
wives, and parents feel that there are 
others who are dearer to them than them- 
selves. Little do they know of human 
nature who speak of marriage as doubling 
our pleasures and dividing our griefs : it 
doubles, or more than doubles both. 

Leonard was not more than eight-and- 
twenty when he obtained a living, a few 

miles from Doncaster. He took his bride 
with him to the vicarage. The house was 
as humble as the benefice, which was 
worth less than ^50 a-year ; but it was 
soon made the neatest cottage in the 
country round, and upon a happier dwel- 
ling the sun never shone. A few acres of 
good glebe were attached to it ; and the 
garden was large enough to afford health- 
ful and pleasurable employment to its 
owners. The course of true love never 
ran more smoothly : but its course was 
short : 

O how this spring of love resembleth 
The uncertain glory of an April day, 

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 

Little more than five years from the 
time of their marriage had elapsed, before 
a headstone in the adjacent churchyard 
told where the remains of Margaret Bacon 
had been deposited in the thirtieth year 
of her age. 

When the stupor and the agony of that 
bereavement had past away, the very in- 
tensity of Leonard's affection became a 
source of consolation. Margaret had been 
to him a purely ideal object during the 
years of his youth ; death had again ren- 
dered her such. Imagination had beau- 
tified and idolized her then ; faith sanc- 
tified and glorified her now. She had 
been to him on earth all that he had fan- 
cied, all that he had hoped, all that he 
had desired. She would again be so in 
heaven. And this second union nothing 
could impede, nothing could interrupt, 
nothing could dissolve. He had only to 
keep himself worthy of it by cherishing 
her memory, hallowing his heart to it 
while he performed a parent's duty to 
their child ; and so doing to await his own 
summons, which must one day come, 
which every day was brought nearer, and 
which any day might bring. 

'T is the only discipline we are born for ; 

All studies else are but as circular lines, 

And death the centre where they must all meet. 

The same feeling which from his child- 
hood had refined Leonard's heart, keeping 
it pure and undefiled, had also corrobo- 
rated the natural strength of his character, 
and made him firm of purpose. It was 
a saying of Bishop Andrews, that " good 
husbandry is good divinity;" " the truth 
whereof," says Fuller, "no wise man will 
deny." Frugality he had always practised 
as a needful virtue, and found that in an 
especial manner it brings with it its own 
reward- He now resolved upon scrupu- 



lously setting apart a fourth of his small 
income to make a provision for his child, 
in case of her surviving him, as in the 
natural course of things might he ex- 
pected. If she should be removed before 
him, — for this was an event the possi- 
bility of which he always bore in mind, — 
he had resolved that whatever should 
have been accumulated with this intent, 
should be disposed of to some other pious 
purpose, — for such, within the limits to 
which his poor means extended, he pro- 
perly considered this. And having en- 
tered on this prudential course with a 
calm reliance upon Providence in case his 
hour should come before that purpose 
could be accomplished, he was without 
any earthly hope or fear, — those alone 
excepted from which no parent can be 

The child had been christened Deborah 
after her maternal grandmother, for whom 
Leonard ever gratefully retained a most 
affectionate and reverential remembrance. 
She was a healthy, happy creature in body 
and in mind ; at first 

one of those little prating girls, 

Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories ; 
afterwards, as she grew up, a favourite 
with the village school-mistress, and with 
the whole parish ; docile, good-natured, 
lively and yet considerate, always gay as 
a lark and busy as a bee. One of the 

pensive pleasures in which Leonard in- 
dulged was to gaze on her unperceived, 
and trace the likeness to her mother. 
How that which was the life's life of our being, 
Can pass away, and we recall it thus ! 

That resemblance which was strong in 
childhood, lessened as the child grew up ; 
for Margaret's countenance had acquired 
a cast of meek melancholy during those 
years in which the bread of bitterness 
had been her portion, but no unhappy cir- 
cumstances depressed the constitutional 
buoyancy of her daughter's spirits. De- 
borah brought into the world the hap- 
piest of all nature's endowments, an easy 
temper and a light heart. Resemblant 
therefore as the features were, the dissi- 
militude of expression was more apparent ; 
and when Leonard contrasted in thought 
the sunshine of hilarity that lit up his 
daughter's face, with the sort of moon- 
light loveliness which had given a serene 
aud saint-like character to her mother's, 
he wished to persuade himself that as the 
early translation of the one seemed to 
have been thus prefigured, the other 
might be destined to live for the happi- 
ness of others till a good old age, while 
length of years in their course shoidd 
ripen her for heaven. 

Anonymous : from a book called l The 

Doctor, 8fc.,' attributed to Robert 





Lady Mary Pierrepont, a daughter of the Duke of Kingston, was horn, about 
1690, at Thoresby in Nottinghamshire. When she was but four years old she lost 
her mother. It has been said that she received a classical education under the same 
masters who taught her brother ; this is doubtful, but it is certain that her early studies 
were directed by Bishop Burnet. In 1712 she married Mr. Edward Wortley Mon- 
tagu, and in 1716 accompanied him on his embassy to Constantinople. During her 
travels she wrote the best of her celebrated letters, and returning in 1718, she lived 
among the witty and the gay. In 1739, with her husband's consent, she left England, 
and resided, during the remainder of his life, in Italy ; on his death, in 1761, she came 
home, and died on the 21st of August 1762. 

Lady Mary's father was a leading whig, and a member of the Kit-cat club, which 
was formed in 1703, by gentlemen who were zealous for the succession of the house of 
Hanover, and who, according to Horace Walpole, were the patriots that saved Britain. 
The club took its name from Christopher Kat, a pastrycook who lived near the tavern 
where they met in King Street, Westminster, and supplied them with tarts. The 
portraits of the members were painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller. It was their custom 
to elect yearly, as their toasts, the reigning beauties of the day ; the name of each 
beauty was engraven on a drinking-glass, and her portrait adorned the club-room. 
When Lady Mary was but eight years old, her father proposed her name, saying that 
she was far prettier than any lady on the list. It was objected that the rules forbad 
them to elect a beauty whom they had not seen ; she was then sent for, received 
with acclamations, and unanimously elected. " The company consisting of some of 
the most eminent men in England, she went from the lap of one poet, or patriot, or 
statesman, to the arms of another ; was feasted with sweetmeats, overwhelmed with 
caresses, and what perhaps already pleased her better than either, heard her wit and 
beauty loudly extolled on every side. Pleasure, she said, was too poor a word to ex- 
press her sensations ; they amounted to ecstasy : never again throughout her whole 
future life did she pass so happy a day." 

This scene had, perhaps, an evil influence on the character of Lady Mary, who always 
looked for happiness in the admiration of the world, and not at home. Her husband, 
who was a grave, austere man, seems to have been a person least in importance to 
her ; of her son, who was irreclaimably vicious and perhaps insane, she coolly writes 



to his father, " I am not insensible of the misfortune, but I look upon it as the loss 
of a limb which should cease to give solicitude by being irretrievable," and her's is 
probably the only instance of a mother leaving, by will, a guinea to an only son. 
She had but one daughter, from whom she parted for twenty-two years, beginning at 
the time when, without any good cause, she left her husband to pass the remainder of 
her life in Italy. Certainly she was not a woman of strong affections. 

To Lady Mary, England was indebted for inoculation in the small-pox which she 
learned from the Turks : she had her son inoculated at Belgrade in 1718, and her 
daughter after her return to England. Four physicians were deputed by Government 
to watch the progress of her daughter's inoculation, and they showed so much ran- 
cour and such an unwillingness for the success of the experiment, that she feared to 
leave the child alone with them ; the clergy preached against the wickedness of her 
taking events out of the hands of Providence ; and the common people hooted at her 
as an unnatural mother : but she was firm and succeeded. 

Her letters are admirable, abounding in livery description, and in wit and good 
sense, flowing with perfect ease and freedom. 

To the Countess of Mar. 

Pera of Constantinople, 
March 10, o.s. 1717. 
I have not written to you, dear sister, 
these many months : — a great piece of 
self-denial. But I know not where to 
direct, or what part of the world you are 
in. I have received no letter from you 
since that short note of April last, in 
which you tell me that you are on the 
point of leaving England, and promise me 
a direction for the place you stay in ; but 
I have in vain expected it till now ; and 
now I only learn from the Gazette that 
you are returned, which induces me to 
venture this letter to your house at Lon- 
don. I had rather ten of my letters 
should be lost, than you imagine I don't 
write ; and I think it is hard fortune if one 
in ten don't reach you. However, I am 
resolved to keep the copies, as testimonies 
of my inclination to give you, to the ut- 
most of my power, all the diverting part 
of my travels, while you are exempt from 
all the fatigues and inconveniences. 

In the first place then I wish you joy 
of your niece ; for I was brought to bed 
of a daughter five weeks ago. I don't 
mention this as one of my diverting ad- 
ventures ; though I must own that it is 
not half so mortifying here as in England, 
there being as much difference as there is 
between a little cold in the head, which 
sometimes happens here, and the con- 
sumption cough, so common in London. 
Nobody keeps their house a month for 
lying-in, and I am not so fond of any of 

our customs as to retain them when they 
are not necessary. I returned my visits 
at three weeks' end ; and about four days 
ago crossed the sea, which divides this 
place from Constantinople, to make a new 
one, where I had the good fortune to pick 
up many curiosities. 

I went to see the Sultana Hafiten, fa- 
vourite of the late Emperor Mustapha, 
who, you know (or perhaps you don't 
know), was deposed by his brother, the 
reigning sultan, and died a few weeks 
after, being poisoned, as it was generally 
believed. This lady was, immediately 
after his death, saluted with an absolute 
order to leave the seraglio, and choose 
herself a husband among the great men 
at the Porte. I suppose you may imagine 
her overjoyed at this proposal. Quite the 
contrary. These women, who are called 
and esteem themselves queens, look upon 
this liberty as the greatest disgrace and 
affront that can happen to them. She 
threw herself at the sultan's feet, and 
begged him to poniard her rather than 
use his brother's widow with that con- 
tempt. She represented to him, in ago- 
nies of sorrow, that she was privileged 
from this misfortune by having brought 
five princes into the Ottoman family ; but 
all the boys being dead, and only one 
girl surviving, this excuse was not re- 
ceived, and she was compelled to make 
her choice. She chose Bekir Effendi, 
then secretary of state, and above four- 
score years old, to convince the world 
that she firmly intended to keep the vow 
she had made, of never suffering a second 
husband to approach her bed ; and since 



she must honour some subject so far as 
to be called his wife, she would choose 
him as a mark of her gratitude, since it 
was he that had presented her at the age 
of ten years to her last lord. But she 
never permitted him to pay her one visit, 
though it is now fifteen years she has 
been in his house, where she passes her 
time in uninterrupted mourning, with a 
constancy very little known in Christen- 
dom, especially in a widow of one-and- 
twenty, for she is now but thirty-six. 
She has no black eunuchs for her guard, 
her husband being obliged to respect her 
as a queen, and not to inquire at all into 
what is done in her apartment. 

I was led into a large room with a sofa 
the whole length of it, adorned with 
white marble pillars, like a raelle, covered 
with pale blue figured velvet on a silver 
ground, with cushions of the same, where 
I was desired to repose till the sultana 
appeared, who had contrived this manner 
of reception to avoid rising up at my en- 
trance, though she made me an inclina- 
tion of her head when I rose up to her. 
I was very glad to observe a lady that 
had been distinguished by the favour of 
an emperor, to whom beauties were every- 
day presented from all parts of the world. 
But she did not seem to me to have ever 
been half so beautiful as the fair Fatima 
I saw at Adrianople ; though she had the 
remains of a fine face, more decayed by 
sorrow than time. But her dress was 
something so surprisingly rich, that I 
cannot forbear describing it to you. She 
wore a vest called donalmd, which differs 
from a caftan by longer sleeves, and fold- 
ing over at the bottom. It was of purple 
cloth, strait to her shape, and thick set on 
each side, down to her feet and round 
the sleeves, with pearls of the best water, 
of the same size as their buttons com- 
monly are. You must not suppose that I 

mean as large as those of my Lord , 

but about the bigness of a pea ; and to 
these buttons large loops of diamonds, in 
the form of those gold loops so common 
on birth-day coats. This habit was tied 
at the waist with two large tassels of 
smaller pearls, and round the arms em- 
broidered with large diamonds. Her shift 
was fastened at the bottom with a great 
diamond, shaped like a lozenge ; her gir- 
dle as broad as the broadest English 
ribband, entirely covered with diamonds. 
Round her neck she wore three chains 
which reached to her knees ; one of large 
pearl, at the bottom of which hung a fine 

coloured emerald as big as a turkey-egg ; 
another, consisting of two hundred eme- 
ralds, closely joined together, of the most 
lively green, perfectly matched, every one 
as large as a half-crown piece, and as 
thick as three crown pieces ; and another 
of small emeralds perfectly round. But 
her ear-rings eclipsed all the rest. They 
were two diamonds, shaped exactly like 
pears, as large as a big hazel nut. Round 
her kalpdc she had four strings of pearl, 
the whitest and most perfect in the world, 
at least enough to make four necklaces, 
every one as large as the Duchess of 
Marlborough's, and of the same shape, 
fastened with two roses, consisting of a 
large ruby for the middle stone, and round 
them twenty drops of clean diamonds to 
each. Beside this, her head-dress was 
covered with bodkins of emeralds and dia- 
monds. She wore large diamond brace- 
lets, and had five rings on her fingers, 
(except Mr. Pitt's) the largest I ever saw 
in my life. It is for jewellers to compute 
the value of these things ; but, according 
to the common estimation of jewels in 
our part of the world, her whole dress 
must be worth a hundred thousand pounds 
sterling. This I am sure of, that no 
European queen has half the quantity, 
and the empress's jewels, though very 
fine, would look very mean near hers. 

She gave me a dinner of fifty dishes of 
meat, which (after their fashion) were 
placed on the table but one at a time, and 
was extremely tedious. But the magnifi- 
cence of her table answered very well to 
that of her dress. The knives were of 
gold, and the hafts set with diamonds. 
But the piece of luxury which grieved my 
eyes was the table-cloth and napkins, 
which were all tiffany, embroidered with 
silk and gold in the finest manner, in 
natural flowers. It was with the utmost 
regret that I made use of these costly 
napkins, which were as finely wrought as 
the finest handkerchiefs that ever came 
out of this country. You may be sure 
that they were entirely spoiled before 
dinner was over. The sherbet (which is 
the liquor they drink at meals) was served 
in china bowls, but the covers and salvers 
massy gold. After dinner, water was 
brought in gold basins, and towels of the 
same kind with the napkins, which I very 
iinwillingly wiped my hands upon ; and. 
coffee was served in china, with gold sou- 
coups. The sultana seemed in a very good 
humour, and talked to me with the ut- 
most civility. I did not omit this oppor- 



tunity of learning all that I possibly 
could of the seraglio, which is so entirely 
unknown among us. She assured me, 
that the story of the sultan's throwing a 
handkerchief is altogether fabulous ; and 
the manner upon that occasion no other 
than this ; he sends the Kysldr Agd to 
signify to the lady the honour he intends 
her; she is immediately complimented 
upon it by the others, and led to the 
bath, where she is perfumed and dressed 
in the most magnificent and becoming 
manner. The emperor precedes his visit 
by a royal present, and then comes into 
her apartment : neither is there any such 
thing as her creeping in at the bed's foot. 
She said, that the first he made choice of 
was always afterward the first in rank, 
and not the mother of the eldest son, as 
other writers would make us believe. 
Sometimes the sultan diverts himself in 
the company of all his ladies, who stand 
in a circle round him. And she con- 
fessed they were ready to die with envy 
and jealousy of the happy she that he 
distinguished by any appearance of pre- 
ference. But this seemed to me neither 
better nor worse than the circles in most 
courts, where the glance of the monarch 
is watched, and every smile is waited for 
with impatience, and envied by those who 
cannot obtain it. 

She never mentioned the sultan with- 
out tears in her eyes, yet she seemed very 
fond of the discourse. " My past happi- 
ness," said she, " appears a dream to me ; 
yet I cannot forget that I was beloved by 
the greatest and most lovely of mankind. 
I was chosen from all the rest, to make 
all his campaigns with him ; and I would 
not survive him, if I was not passionately 
fond of the princess my daughter. Yet 
all my tenderness for her was hardly 
enough to make me preserve my life. 
When I left him, I passed a whole twelve- 
month without seeing the light. Time 
hath softened my despair ; yet I now pass 
some days every week in tears, devoted to 
the memory of my sultan." 

There was no affectation in these words ; 
it was easy to see she was in a deep me- 
lancholy, though her good humour made 
her willing to divert me. 

She asked me to walk in her garden, 
and one of her slaves immediately brought 
her a pellice of rich brocade lined with 
sables. I waited on her into the garden, 
which had nothing in it remarkable but 
the fountains ; and from thence she showed 
me all her apartments. In her bed-cham- 

ber her toilet was displayed, consisting of 
two looking-glasses, the frames covered 
with pearls, and her night talpoche set 
with bodkins of jewels, and near it three 
vests of fine sables, every one of which is, 
at least, worth a thousand dollars (two 
hundred pounds English money). I don't 
doubt but these rich habits were pur- 
posely placed in sight, though they seemed 
negligently thrown on the sofa. When I 
took my leave of her, I was complimented 
with perfumes, as at the grand vizier's, 
and presented with a very fine embroidered 
handkerchief. Her slaves were to the 
number of thirty, besides ten little ones, 
the eldest not above seven years old. 
These were the most beautiful girls I ever 
saw, all richly dressed ; and I observed 
that the sultana took a great deal of plea- 
sure in these lovely children, which is a 
vast expense ; for there is not a handsome 
girl of that age to be bought under a 
hundred pounds sterling. They wore little 
garlands of flowers, and their own hair 
braided, which was all their head-dress ; 
but their habits were all of gold stuffs. 
These served her coffee, kneeling; brought 
water when she washed, &c. It is a great 
part of the work of the elder slaves to 
take care of these young girls, to learn 
them to embroider, and to serve them as 
carefully as if they were children of the 

Now, do you imagine I have entertained 
you all this while, with a relation that 
has, at least, received many embellish- 
ments from my hand ? This, you will say, 
is but too like the Arabian tales ; these 
embroidered napkins ! and a jewel as 
large as a turkey's egg ! You forget, dear 
sister, these very tales were written by an 
author of this country, and (excepting the 
enchantments) are a real representation of 
the manners here. We travellers are in 
very hard circumstances ; if we say no- 
thing but what has been said before us, 
we are dull, and we have observed no- 
thing. If we tell anything new, we are 
laughed at as fabulous and romantic, not 
allowing either for the difference of ranks, 
which affords difference of company, or 
more curiosity, or the change of customs, 
that happens every twenty years in every 
country. But the truth is, people judge 
of travellers exactly with the same can- 
dour, good-nature and impartiality, they 
judge of their neighbours upon all occa- 
sions. For my part, if I live to return 
amongst you, I am so well acquainted 
with the morals of all my dear friends and 



acquaintances, that I am resolved to tell 
them nothing at all, to avoid the imputa- 
tion (which their charity would certainly 
incline them to) of my telling too much. 
But I depend upon your knowing me 
enough to helieve whatever I seriously 
assert for truth, though I give you leave 
to be surprised at an account so new to 

But what would you say if I told you 
that I have been in a harem, where the 
winter apartment was wainscoted with in- 
laid work of mother-o'-pearl, ivory of dif- 
ferent colours, and olive wood, exactly 
like the little boxes you have seen brought 
out of this country ; and in whose rooms 
designed for summer, the walls are all 
crusted with japan china, the roofs gilt, 
and the floors spread with the finest Per- 
sian carpets ? Yet there is nothing more 
true : such is the palace of my lovely 
friend, the fair Fatima, whom I was ac- 
quainted with at Adrianople. I went to 
visit her yesterday ; and, if possible, she 
appeared to me handsomer than before. 
She met me at the door of her chamber, 
and, giving me her hand with the best 
grace in the world, " You Christian 
ladies," said she, with a smile that made 
her as beautiful as an angel, " have the 
reputation of inconstancy, and I did not 
expect, whatever goodness you expressed 
for me at Adrianople, that I should ever 
see you again. But I am now convinced 
that I have really the happiness of pleasing 
you ; and, if you knew how I speak of 
you amongst our ladies, you would be as- 
sured that you do me justice in making 
me your friend." She placed me in the 
corner of the sofa, and I spent the after- 
noon in her conversation, with the great- 
est pleasure in the world. 

The Sultana Hafiten is, what one would 
naturally expect to find a Turkish lady, 
willing to oblige, but not knowing how to 
go about it ; and it is easy to see in her 
manner that she has lived secluded from 
the world. But Fatima has all the polite- 
ness and good-breeding of a court, with 
an air that inspires at once respect and 
tenderness ; and now that I understand 
her language, I find her wit as agreeable 
as her beauty. She is very curious after 
the manners of other countries, and has 
not the partiality for her own so common 
in little minds. A Greek that I carried 
with me, who had never seen her before, 
(nor could have been admitted now, if she 
had not been in my train,) showed that 
surprise at her beauty and manners which 

is unavoidable at the first sight, and said 
to me in Italian, " This is no Turkish lady, 
she is certainly some christian." Fatima 
guessed she spoke of her, and asked what 
she said. I would not have told her, 
thinking she would have been no better 
pleased with the compliment than one of 
our court beauties to be told she had the 
air of a Turk ; but the Greek lady told it 
to her, and she smiled, saying, " It is not 
the first time I have heard so ; my mother 
was a Poloneze, taken at the siege of 
Caminiec ; and my father used to rally 
me, saying, he believed his Christian wife 
had found some gallant, for that I had 
not the air of a Turkish girl." I assured 
her that, if all the Turkish ladies were 
like her, it was absolutely necessary to 
confine them from public view, for the 
repose of mankind ; and proceeded to tell 
her what a noise such a face as hers would 
make in London or Paris. " I can't be- 
lieve you," replied she, agreeably ; " if 
beauty was so much valued in your coun- 
try as you say, they would never have 
suffered you to leave it." Perhaps, dear 
sister, you laugh at my vanity in repeat- 
ing this compliment ; but I only do it as 
I think it very well turned, and give it 
you as an instance of the spirit of her 

Her house was magnificently furnished, 
and very well fancied ; her winter rooms 
being furnished with figured velvet on 
gold grounds, and those for summer with 
fine Indian quilting embroidered with 
gold. The houses of the great Turkish 
ladies are kept clean with as much nicety 
as those in Holland. This was situated in 
a high part of the town ; and from the 
window of her summer apartment we had 
the prospect of the sea, the islands, and 
the Asian mountains. 

My letter is insensibly grown so long, 
I am ashamed of it. This is a very bad 
symptom. 'T is well if I don't degenerate 
into a downright story-teller. It may be, 
our proverb, that knowledge is no burthen, 
may be true as to one's self, but knowing 
too much is very apt to make us trouble- 
some to other people. 

Mary Worthy Montagu. 



To the Countess of . 

I set out from Bologna the moment I 
had finished the letter I wrote you on 
Monday last, and shall now continue to 
inform you of the things that have struck 
me most in this excursion. Sad roads — 
hilly and rocky — between Bologna and 
Fierenzuolo. Between this latter place 
and Florence, I went out of my road to 
visit the monastery of La Trappe, which 
is of French origin, and one of the most 
austere and self-denying orders I have met 
with. In this gloomy retreat it gave me 
pain to observe the infatuation of men, 
who have devoutly reduced themselves to 
a much worse condition than that of the 
beasts. Folly, you see, is the lot of hu- 
manity, whether it arises in the flowery 
paths of pleasure or the thorny ones of 
an ill-judged devotion; but of the two 
sorts of fools, I shall always think that 
the merry one has the most eligible fate ; 
and I cannot well form a notion of that 
spiritual and ecstatick joy that is mixed 
with sighs, groans, hunger and thirst, and 
the other complicated miseries of mo- 
nastick discipline. It is a strange way of 
going to work for happiness to excite an 
enmity between soul and body, which 
Nature and Providence have designed to 
live together in union and friendship, and 
which we cannot separate like man and 
wife when they happen to disagree. The 
profound silence that is enjoined upon the 
monks of La Trappe, is a singular circum- 
stance of their unsociable and unnatural 
discipline ; and were this injunction never 
to be dispensed with, it would be needless 
to visit them in any other character than 
as a collection of statues ; but the supe- 
rior of the convent suspended in our 
favour that rigorous law, and allowed one 
of the mutes to converse with me, and 
answer a few discreet questions. He told 
me that the monks of this order in France 
are still more austere than those of Italy, 
as they never taste wine, flesh, fish, or 
eggs, but live entirely upon vegetables. 
The story that is told of the institution of 
this order is remarkable, and is well at- 
tested, if my information be good. Its 
founder was a French nobleman, whose 
name was Bouthillier de Ranee, a man of 
pleasure and gallantry, which were con- 
verted into the deepest gloom of devotion 

by the following incident : — His affairs 
obliged him to absent himself for some 
time from a lady whom he tenderly loved. 
At his return to Paris he proposed to 
surprise her agreeably, and, at the same 
time, to satisfy his own impatient desire 
of seeing her, by going directly and with- 
out ceremony to her apartment by a back 
stair, which he was well acquainted with ; 
but think of the spectacle that presented 
itself to him at his entrance into the 
chamber ! his mistress dead — dead of the 
small-pox, disfigured beyond expression, 
a loathsome mass of putrified matter, 
and the surgeon separating the head 
from the body, because the coffin had 
been made too short! He stood for a 
moment motionless in amazement and 
filled with horror, and then retired from 
the world, shut himself up in the con- 
vent of La Trappe, where he passed the 
remainder of his days in the most cruel 
and disconsolate devotion. Let us quit 
this sad subject. 

I must not forget to tell you that, be- 
fore I came to this monastery, I went to 
see the burning mountain near Fieren- 
zuolo, of which the naturalists speak as a 
great curiosity. The flame it sends forth 
is without smoke, and resembles brandy 
set on fire. The ground about it is well 
cultivated, and the fire appears only in 
one spot, where there is a cavity whose 
circumference is small, but in it are seve- 
ral crevices whose depths are unknown. 
It is remarkable that, when a piece of 
wood is thrown into this cavity, though 
it cannot pass through the crevices, yet 
it is consumed in a moment, and that 
though the ground about it be perfectly 
cold, yet if a stick be rubbed with any 
force against it, it emits a flame, which, 
however, is neither hot nor durable like 
that of the volcano. If you desire a more 
circumstantial account of this phenome- 
non, and have made a sufficient progress in 
Italian to read Father Carrazzi's descrip- 
tion of it, you need not be at a loss, for I 

have sent this description to Mr. F , 

and you have only to ask it of him. After 
observing the volcano, I scrambled up all 
the neighbouring hills, partly on horse- 
back, partly on foot, but could find no 
vestige of fire in any of them, though 
common report would make one believe 
that they all contain volcanos. 

I hope you have not taken it in your 
head to expect from me a description of 
the famous gallery here, where I arrived 
on Thursday at noon ; this would be re- 



quiring a volume instead of a letter ; be- 
sides, I have as yet seen but a part of this 
immense treasure, and I propose employ- 
ing some weeks more to survey the whole. 
You cannot imagine any situation more 
agreeable than Florence ; it lies in a fer- 
tile and smiling valley watered by the 
Arno, which runs through the city, and 
nothing can surpass the beauty and mag- 
nificence of its public buildings, particu- 
larly the cathedral, whose grandeur filled 
me with astonishment. The palaces, 
squares, fountains, statues, bridges, do 
not only carry an aspect full of elegance 
and greatness, but discover a taste quite 
different in kind from that which reigns 
in the public edifices in other countries. 
The more I see of Italy the more I am 
persuaded that the Italians have a style 
(if I may use that expression) in every- 
thing, which distinguishes them almost 
essentially from all other Europeans. 
Where they have got it, whether from 
natural genius or ancient imitation and 
inheritance, I shall not examine, but the 
fact is certain. I have been but one day 
in the gallery, that amazing repository of 
the most precious remains of antiquity, 
and which alone is sufficient to immor- 
talize the illustrious house of Medicis, by 
whom it was built, and enriched as we 
now see it. I was so impatient to see the 
famous Venus of Medicis, that I went 
hastily through six apartments in order to 
get a sight of this divine figure, purposing, 
when I had satisfied this ardent curiosity, 
to return and view the rest at my leisure. 
As I, indeed, passed through the great 
room which contains the ancient statues, 
I was stopped short at viewing the An- 
tinous. This statue, bke that of the 
Venus de Medicis, spurns description ; 
such figures my eyes never beheld ; I can 
now understand that Ovid's comparing a 
fine woman to a statue, which I formerly 
thought a very disobbging similitude, was 
the nicest and highest piece of flattery. 
The fine attitude of the Antinous carries 
such an expression of ease, elegance and 
grace, as no words can describe. When I 
saw the Venus I was wrapped in wonder, 
and I could not help casting a thought 
back upon Antinous. They ought to be 
placed together ; they are worthy of each 
other. Did I pretend to describe to you 
the Venus, it would only set your ima* 
gination at work to form ideas of her 
figure, and your ideas would no more re- 
semble that figure than the Portuguese 
face of Miss N , who has enchanted 

our knight, resembles the sweet and grace- 
ful countenance of Lady , his former 

flame. The description of a face or figure 
is a needless thing, as it never conveys a 
true idea ; it only gratifies the imagination 
with a fantastic one, until the real one is 
seen. So, my dear, if you have a mind to 
form a true notion of the divine forms 
and features of the Venus and Antinous, 
come to Florenee. 

I would be glad to obbge you and your 
friend Vertue, by executing your commis- 
sion with respect to the sketches of Ra- 
phael's cartoons at Hampton Court, but I 
cannot do it to my satisfaction. I have, 
indeed, seen in the grand duke's collec- 
tion, four pieces, in which that wonderful 
artist had thrown freely from bis pencil 
the first thoughts and rude lines of some 
of those compositions ; and as the first 
thoughts of a great genius are precious, 
these pieces attracted my curiosity in a 
particular manner ; but when I went to 
examine them closely, I found them so 
damaged and effaced, that they did not 
at all answer my expectation. Whether 
this be owing to negligence or envy, I 
cannot say ; I mention the latter because 
it is notorious that many of the modern 
painters have discovered ignoble marks of 
envy at a view of the inimitable produc- 
tions of the ancients. Instead of employ- 
ing their art to preserve the master- 
pieces of antiquity, they have endeavoured 
to destroy and efface many of them. I 
have seen with my own eyes an evident 
proof of this at Bologna, where the great- 
est part of the paintings in fresco on the 
walls of the convent of St. Michael in 
Bosco, done by the Caracci and Guido 
Rheni, have been ruined by the painters, 
who, after having copied some of the 
finest heads, scraped them almost entirely 
out with nails. Thus you see nothing is 
exempt from human malignity. 

Mary Wort ley Montagu. 

To the Countess of Bute, 

Louvers, June 23, 1754. 

My dear Child— I have promised you 
some remarks on all the books I have re- 
ceived. I believe you would easily for- 
give my not keeping my word ; however, 
I shall go on. The Rambler is certainly 
a strong misnomer ; he always plods in 



the beaten road of his predecessors, fol- 
lowing the Spectator (with the same pace 
a pack-horse would do a hunter), in the 
style that is proper to lengthen a paper. 
These writers may, perhaps, be of service 
to the public, which is saying a great deal 
in their favour. There are numbers of 
both sexes who never read anything but 
such productions, and cannot spare time, 
from doing nothing, to go through a six- 
penny pamphlet. Such gentle readers 
may be improved by a moral hint, which, 
though repeated over and over from gene- 
ration to generation, they never heard in 
their lives. 1 should be glad to know the 
name of this laborious author. H. Field- 
ing has given a true picture of himself and 
bis first wife, in the characters of Mr. and 
Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his own 
figure excepted ; and I am persuaded seve- 
ral of the incidents he mentions are real 
matters of fact. I wonder he does not 
perceive Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are 
sorry scoundrels. All this sort of books 
have the same fault, which I cannot easily 
pardon, being very mischievous. They 
place a merit in extravagant passions, and 
encourage young people to hope for im- 
possible events, to draw them out of the 
misery they choose to plunge themselves 
into, expecting legacies from unknown re- 
lations, and generous benefactors to dis- 
tressed virtue, as much out of nature as 
fairy treasures. Fielding has really a fund 
of true humour, and was to be pitied at 
his first entrance into the world, having 
no choice, as he said himself, but to be a 
hackney writer or a hackney coachman. 
His genius deserved a better fate ; but I 
cannot help blaming that continued indis- 
cretion, to give it the softest name, that 
has run through his life, and I am afraid 
still remains. I guessed R. Random to be 
his, though without his name. I cannot 
think Ferdinand Fathom wrote by the 
same hand, it is every way so much below 
it. Sally Fielding has mended her style 
in her last volume of David Simple, which 
conveys a useful moral, though she does 
not seem to have intended it : I mean, 
shows the ill-consequences of not pro- 
viding against casual losses, which happen 
to almost every body. Mrs. Orgueil's cha- 
racter is well drawn, and is frequently to be 
met with. The Art of Tormenting, the 
Female Quixote, and Sir C. Goodville are 
all sale works. I suppose they proceed 
from her pen, and I heartily pity her, con- 
strained by her circumstances to seek her 
bread by a method, I do not doubt, she 

despises. Tell me who is that accom- 
plished countess she celebrates. I left no 
such person in London ; nor can I ima- 
gine who is meant by the English Sappho 
mentioned in Betsy Thoughtless, whose 
adventures, and those of Jemmy Jessamy, 
gave me some amusement. I was better 
entertained by the Valet, who very fairly 
represents how you are bought and sold 
by your servants. I am now so accus- 
tomed to another manner of treatment, it 
would be difficult to me to suffer them : 
his adventures have the uncommon merit 
of ending in a surprising manner. The 
general want of invention which reigns 
among our writers, inclines me to think 
it is not the natural growth of our island, 
which has not sun enough to warm the 
imagination. The press is loaded by 
the servile flock of imitators. Lord Bo- 
lingbroke would have quoted Horace in 
this place. Since I was born no original 
has appeared excepting Congreve, and 
Fielding, who would, I believe, have ap- 
proached nearer to his excellences, if not 
forced by necessity to publish without cor- 
rection, and throw many productions into 
the world he would have thrown into the 
fire, if meat could have been got without 
money, or money without scribbling. The 
greatest virtue, justice, and the most dis- 
tinguishing prerogative of mankind, wri- 
ting, when duly executed, do honour to 
human nature ; but when degenerated into 
trades, are the most contemptible ways of 
getting bread. I am sorry not to see any 
more of Peregrine Pickle's performances ; 
I wish you would tell me his name. 

I can't forbear saying something in re- 
lation to my grand-daughters, who are 
very near my heart. If any of them are 
fond of reading, I would not advise you to 
hinder them (chiefly because it is impossi- 
ble) seeing poetry, plays, or romances ; 
but accustom them to talk over what they 
read, and point out to them, as you are 
very capable of doing, the absurdity often 
concealed under fine expressions, where 
the sound is apt to engage the admiration 
of young people. I was so much charmed 
at fourteen with the dialogue of Henry 
and Emma, I can say it by heart to this 
day, without reflecting on the monstrous 
folly of the story in plain prose, where a 
young heiress to a fond father is repre- 
sented falling in love with a fellow she 
had only seen as a huntsman, a falconer, 
and a beggar, and who confesses, without 
any circumstances of excuse, that he is 
obliged to run his country, having newly 



committed a murder. She ought reason- 
ably to have supposed him, at best, a high- 
wayman ; yet the virtuous virgin resolves 
to run away with him, to live among the 
banditti, and wait upon his trollop, if she 
had no other way of enjoying his company. 
This senseless tale is, however, so well 
varnished with melody of words and pomp 
of sentiments, I am convinced it has hurt 

more girls than ever were injured by the 
worst poems extant. 

I fear this counsel has been repeated to 
you before ; but I have lost so many let- 
ters designed for you, I know not which 
you have received. If you would have 
me avoid this fault, you must take notice 
of those that arrive, which you very sel- 
dom do. Mary Worthy Montagu. 


the poet, was born in Cornhill, London, on the 20th of December 1716, and was 
educated at Eton and at Peter-house, Cambridge. In March 1739, he accompanied 
his friend and school-fellow Horace Walpole, on the usual tour through France and 
Italy. A quarrel arose between them, and in 1741 Gray returned home alone. In 
1742 he wrote several of his poems, and among them the Ode on a Distant Prospect 
of Eton College ; it is probable that in the same year he began his Elegy in a Country 
Churchyard; but he did not publish any work until 1747. From 1742 to the day of 
his death, he lived chiefly at Cambridge, excepting that from 1759, when the British 
Museum opened, down to 1762, he lodged in London, for the purpose of making ex- 
tracts from the Harleian and other MSS. In 1768 he was appointed professor of 
Modern History at Cambridge. In the next year he made a tour to the English 
Lakes. An extract from one of Ms letters to Dr. Warton, written during that ex- 
cursion, is given below. He died on the 31st of July 1771, and was buried at Stoke 
near Windsor. 

Gray was a learned and a good man, but it is said that he wanted personal courage, 
and was effeminate and fastidious. Dr. Johnson, who was insensible to the beauty 
and sublimity of his poems, which are now famihar in our mouths as household words, 
yet does justice to his letters. Speaking of the account of the journey through West- 
moreland and Cumberland, he says, " He that reads his epistolary narration wishes, 
that to travel, and to tell his travels, had been more of his employment." Nothing can 
be better tban Gray's description ; of which assertion no other proof need be given 
than the following passages, which will be admired by all, and most of all by those 
who have seen the country described. 


To Dr. Warton. 

Oct. 8, 1769. 
I left Keswick and took the Ambleside- 
road in a gloomy morning ; and about two 
miles from the town mounted an eminence 
called Castle -rigg, and the sun breaking 
out, discovered the most enchanting view T 
I have yet seen of the whole valley behind 
me, the two lakes, the river, the moun- 
tains all in their glory ; so that I had al- 
most a mind to have gone back again. 
The road in some few r parts is not com- 

pleted, yet good country road, through 
sound but narrow and stony lanes, very 
safe in broad day-light. This is the case 
about Causew r ay-fort, and among Naddle- 
fells to Lancwaite. The vale you go in 
has little breadth ; the mountains are vast 
and rocky, the fields little and poor, and 
the inhabitants are now r making hay, and 
see not the sun by two hours in a day so 
long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of 
Helvellyn, along which runs an excellent 
road, looking down from a little height 
on Lee's-water (called also Thirlmeer or 
I Wiborn-water), and soon descending on 



its margin. The lake looks black from its 
depth, and from the gloom of the vast 
crags that scowl over it, though really 
clear as glass ; it is narrow, and about 
three miles long, resembling a river in its 
course ; little shining torrents hurry down 
the rocks* to join it, but not a bush to 
overshadow them or cover their march ; 
all is rock and loose stones up to the very 
brow, which lies so near your way, that 
not above half the height of Helvellyn 
can be seen. 

Next I passed by the little chapel of 
Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congre- 
gation were then issuing ; soon after a 
beck near Dunmeil-raise, when I entered 
Westmoreland a second time, and now be- 
gan to see Holm-crag, distinguished from 
its rugged neighbours, not so much by its 
height as by the strange broken outlines 
of its top, like some gigantick building de- 
molished, and the stones that composed it 
flung cross each other in wild confusion. 
Just beyond it opens one of the sweetest 
landscapes that art ever attempted to imi- 
tate. The bosom of the mountains spread- 
ing here into a broad basin discovers in 
the midst Grasmere-water ; its margin is 
hollowed into small bays, with bold emi- 
nences ; some of rock, some of soft turf, 
that half conceal, and vary the figure of 
the little lake they command : from the 
shore, a low promontory pushes itself far 
into the water, and on it stands a white 
village with the parish church rising in the 
midst of it : hanging enclosures, corn- 
fields, and meadows green as an emerald, 
with their trees and hedges, and cattle, 
fill up the whole space from the edge of 
the water : and just opposite to you is a 
large farm-house at the bottom of a steep 
smooth lawn, embosomed in old woods, 
which climb half-way up the mountain's 
side, and discover above them a broken 
line of crags that crown the scene. Not 
a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's 
house, or garden-walls, break in upon the 
repose of this little unsuspected paradise ; 
but all is peace, rusticity, and happy po- 
verty in its neatest, most becoming attire. 

The road winds here over Grasmere- 
hiU, whose rocks soon conceal the water 
from your sight ; yet it is continued along 
behind them, and contracting itself to a 
river, communicates with Kidale-water, 
another small lake, but of inferior size and 
beauty ; it seems shallow too, for large 
patches of reeds appear pretty far within 
it. Into this vale the road descends. On 
the opposite banks large and ancient woods 

mount up the hills ; and just to the left of 
our way stands Ridale-hall, the family seat 
of Sir Michael Fleming, a large old-fa- 
shioned fabrick, surrounded with wood. 
Sir Michael is now on his travels, and all 
this timber, far and wide, belongs to him. 
Near the house rises a huge crag, called 
Ridale-head, which is said to command a 
full view of Wynander-mere, and I doubt 
it not ; for within a mile that great lake 
is visible, even from the road ; as to going 
up the crag, one might as well go up 

I now reached Ambleside, eighteen 
miles from Keswick, meaning to lie there;- 
but on looking into the best bed-chamber, 
dark and damp as a cellar, grew delicate, 
gave up Wynander-mere in despair, and 
resolved I would go on to Kendal directly, 
fourteen miles farther. The road in gene- 
ral fine turnpike, but some parts (about 
three miles in all) not made, yet without 

For this determination I was unexpect- 
edly well rewarded ; for the afternoon was 
fine, and the road, for the space of full 
five miles, ran along the side of Wynander- 
mere, with delicious views across it, and 
almost from one end to the other. It is 
ten miles in length, and at most a mile 
over, resembling the course of some vast 
and magnificent river : but no flat marshy 
grounds, no osier beds, or patches of 
scrubby plantations on its banks : at the 
head two valleys open among the moun- 
tains ; one, that by which we came down, 
the other Langsledale, in which Wry-nose 
and Hard-knot, two great mountains, rise 
above the rest ; from thence the fells visi- 
bly sink, and soften along its sides ; some- 
times they run into it (but with a gentle 
declivity) in their own dark and natural 
complexion : oftener they are green and 
cultivated, with farms interspersed, and 
round eminences, on the border covered 
with trees : towards the south it seemed 
to break into larger bays, with several 
islands and a wdder extent of cultivation. 
The way rises continually, till at a place 
called Orrest-head it turns south-east, 
losing sight of the water. 

Passed by Ing's Chapel and Staveley; but 
I can say no farther, for the dusk of even-, 
ing coming on, I entered Kendal almost in 
the dark, and could distinguish only a sha^ 
dow of the castle on a hill, and tenter-, 
grounds spread far and wide round the 
town, which I mistook for houses. My 
inn promised sadly, having two wooden 
galleries, like Scotland, in front of it : it 


was indeed an old ill-contrived house, but 
kept by civil sensible people ; so I stayed 
two nights with them, and fared and slept 
very comfortably. Thomas Gray. 


To Mr. West. 

Florence, July 16, 1740. 
You do yourself and me justice, in ima- 
gining that you merit, and that I am capa- 
ble of sincerity. I have not a thought, or 
even a weakness, I desire to conceal from 
you ; and consequently on my side deserve 
to be treated with the same openness of 
heart. My vanity perhaps might make 
me more reserved towards you, if you were 
one of the heroic race, superior to all hu- 
man failings ; but as mutual wants are the 
ties of general society, so are mutual weak- 
nesses of private friendships, supposing 
them mixed with some proportion of good 
qualities ; for where one may not some- 
times blame, one does not much care ever 
to praise. All this has the air of an in- 
troduction designed to soften a very harsh 
reproof that is to follow ; but it is no such 
matter : I only meant to ask, Why did you 
change your lodging? Was the air bad, 
or the situation melancholy ? If so, you 
are quite in the right. Only, is it not put- 
ting yourself a little out of the way of a 
people, with whom it seems necessary to 
keep up some sort of intercourse and con- 
versation, though but little for your plea- 
sure or entertainment (yet there are, I be- 
lieve, such among them as might give you 
both), at least for your information in that 
study, which, when I left you, you thought 
of applying to ? for that there is a certain 
study necessary to be followed, if we mean 
to be of any use in the world, I take for 
granted ; disagreeable enough (as most 
necessities are), but I am afraid unavoid- 
able. Into how many branches these stu- 
dies are divided in England, everybody 
knows ; and between that which you and 
I had pitched upon, and the other two, it 
was impossible to balance long. Exam- 
ples show one that it is not absolutely ne- 
cessary to be a blockhead to succeed in 
this profession. The labour is long, and 
the elements dry and unentertaining ; nor 
was ever anybody (especially those that 
afterwards made a figure in it) amused, or 
even not disgusted in the beginning ; yet, 
upon a further acquaintance, there is surely 
matter for curiosity and reflection. It is 

| strange if, among all that huge mass of 
I words, there be not somewhat intermixed 
for thought. Laws have been the result 
of long deliberation, and that not of dull 
! men, but the contrary; and have so close 
a counexion with history, nay, with philo- 
i sophy itself, that they must partake a little 
! of what they are related to so nearly. 
' Besides, tell me, have you even made the 
attempt ? Was not you frighted merely 
with the distant prospect ? Had the 
Gothic character and bulkiness of those 
volumes (a tenth part of which perhaps it 
will be no further necessary to consult, 
than as one does a dictionary) no ill effect 
upon your eye ? Are you sure if Coke had 
been printed by Elzevir, and bound in 
twenty neat pocket volumes, instead of 
one folio, you should never have taken 
, him up for an hour, as you would a Tully, 
or drank your tea over him ? I know how 
great an obstacle ill spirits are to resolu- 
tion. Do you really think, if you rid ten 
; miles every morning, in a week's time you 
should not entertain much stronger hopes 
of the chancellorship, and think it a much 
' more probable thing than you do at pre- 
sent ? The advantages you mention are 
not nothing; our inclinations are more 
than we imagine in our own power ; rea- 
son and resolution determine them, and 
support under many difriculties. To me 
, there hardly appears to be any medium be- 
tween a public life and a private one ; he 
who prefers the first must put himself in 
a way of being serviceable to the rest of 
mankind, if he has a mind to be of any 
consequence among them : nay, he must 
' not refuse being in a certain degree even 
dependent upon some men who are so 
already. If he has the good fortune to 
i light on such as will make no ill use of 
J his humility, there is no shame in this : 
! if not, his ambition ought to give place to 
' a reasonable pride, and he should apply 
to the cultivation of his own mind those 
abilities which he has not been permitted 
i to use for others' service. Such a private 
i happiness (supposing a small competence 
of fortune) is almost always in every one's 
power, and the proper enjoyment of age, as 
the other is the employment of youth. You 
are yet young, have some advantages and 
opportunities, and an undoubted capacity, 
which you have never yet put to the trial. 
Set apart a few hours, see how the first 
year will agree with you, and at the end of 
it you are still the master ; if you change 
your mind, you will only have got the 
knowledge of a little somewhat that can 



do no hurt, or give you cause of repent- 
ance. If your inclination be not fixed 
upon anything else, it is a symptom that 
you are not absolutely determined against 
this, and warns you not to mistake mere 
indolence for inability. I am sensible 
there is nothing stronger against what I 
would persuade you to, than my own prac- 
tice ; which may make you imagine I think 

not as I speak. Alas ! it is not so ; but I 
do not act what I think, and I had rather 
be the object of your pity, than that you 
should be that of mine ; and, be assured, 
the advantage I may receive from it does 
not diminish my concern in hearing you 
want somebody to converse with freely, 
whose advice might be of more weight, 
and always at hand. Thomas Gray. 


the third and youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, was born in 1717, and educated 
at Eton and at King's College, Cambridge. He began his travels on the Continent in 
1739, with Gray the poet, and returning in 1741, took his seat in the House of Com- 
mons as member for Callington. He represented different boroughs until 1768, when 
he retired from public business. In 1747 he purchased a cottage and a piece of 
ground at Twickenham, which rose and spread into the Gothic castle and grounds of 
Strawberry Hill. There he designed and built, and collected books, pictures and 
antiques. He was passionately fond of the place, not less of its lilacs and its nightin- 
gales, than of his castle, and his hoards of treasure and frippery. 

He was a writer of drama, romance, historick essays and memoirs, anecdotes of 
painters and engravers, and of innumerable letters carefully copied and kept for publi- 
cation. In 1791 he succeeded to the title of Earl of Orford, and died on the 2nd of 
March 1797. 

He has handed down his own character in his memoirs ; he says that he had great 
sense of honour, scorning to stoop to any meanness, and that " one virtue he pos- 
sessed in a singular degree — disinterestedness and contempt of money — if one may 
call that a virtue which really was a passion." How much he was deceived in him- 
self shall be shown by extracts from his letters. 

The Marquis Riccardi, a Florentine, wrote that he had sent to him seventy-seven 
antique gems, to be sold altogether for 2000 pistoles. Mr. Walpole was very indig- 
nant at this extraordinary impertinence, as he called it, and declared in a letter to his 
friend, Sir Horace Mann, that he would not receive the parcel. However, he did after- 
wards receive and open it by mistake, and then wrote that the gems were as much 
worth 22,000 as 2000 pistoles; that he had entirely left off making any collection; that 
he thought himself not at all well used ; that the marquis had picked up the things from 
the shops on the old bridge at Florence, but as he had received many civilities from 
Madame Riccardi, if the marquis would send a catalogue with the price of each piece, 
and a price in the whole considerably less than had been named, he would sell what 
he could, and if this were not done he would pack them up and send them to Leg- 
horn by the first ship. This proposal was not agreed to, and he was asked to send 
the treasure to Lisbon ; he answered that he had nothing to say to Marquis Riccardi 
about his trumpery gems, but what he had already said ; that nobody would buy them 
together ; that if the marquis would think better, and let them be sold by auction, it 
might be done most advantageously ; but that for sending them to Lisbon he would 
by no means do it, as the impertinent sending them without leave should in no man- 
ner draw him into the risk of paying for them ; that, in short, if the marquis would 


send anybody to him with full authority to receive them, and to give the most ample 
discharge, he would deliver them, and should be happy so to get rid of them. There 
they lay in a corner of his closet, and would probably come to light at last with ex- 
cellent antique mould about them ! After these rebuffs, the marquis gave full power 
to the Florentine ambassador to receive his property, and one would have thought 
that a man who wished to retain the faintest shadow or outline of a gentleman would 
have stifled even a thought of keeping back any part of it ; but Mr. Walpole, who 
had insulted the marquis in whose house he had received civilities ; who had re- 
fused to transmit the gems to Lisbon ; who had carefully made it understood that 
he had flung them by as things of no value ; now, after he had received the order 
to deliver them, was not ashamed to give the strongest proof that his design all 
along had been to take to himself, at his own price, some of this "trurnpery;" 
and he had the incredible meanness to assign the trouble that he had taken for the 
marquis as a reason why he should have the goods cheap. He writes, " There are 
four rings that I should be glad he would sell me, but they are such trifles, and he 
will set such a value on them the moment he knows I like them, that it is scarce 
worth while to make the proposal, because I would give but a little for them. How- 
ever, you may hint what plague I have had with his roba, and that it will be a gen- 
tillezza to sell me these four dabs. One is a man's head, small, on cornelian and in- 
taglio ; a fly, ditto; an Isis cameo, and an inscription in Christian Latin: the last is 
literally not worth two sequins." The correspondence closed in another letter : " I 
shall deliver the gems to Pucci, but am so simple (you will laugh at me) as to keep 
the four I liked ; that is, I will submit to give him fifty pounds for them, if he will 
let me choose one ring more ; for I will at least have it to call them at ten guineas 
a-piece. I can choose no ring for which I would give five guineas." 

In another of his letters there is wretched chaffering about a miniature which he 
wished to buy ; the bravo who bought the robes of the young King of Leon could not 
have done it better : it is droll, too, that while he is warning Sir Horace Mann against 
giving presents to other people, he is constantly receiving presents from him ; like the 
good old lady who ended an impressive lecture to a young friend on the necessity of 
rigid and minute economy ; — " and now, my dear Mr. William, you must promise me 
that you w r ill not bring over a single present, not even the smallest, for anybody, 
except a pair of lories for me." 

In the controversy respecting Chatterton, Horace Walpole showed, in another way, 
a meanness of spirit. He was accused of having treated Chatterton with neglect and 
contempt, and it was insinuated that this was the primary cause of Chatterton's sui- 
cide. For the latter part of the charge there was no pretence, and as to the neglect 
and contempt, Walpole might have answered justly, that Chatterton had tried to de- 
ceive him, had deceived him, and deserved no courtesy, — but such a confession his 
vanity would not allow. Half of his defence before the public was directed to dis- 
prove that he had treated Chatterton arrogantly, and was scarcely true, though the 
arrogance might be excusable. The other half was to prove that he had from the 
first suspected Chatterton's pretended ancient poems to be modern; that he had not 
been made a fool of; that he had concluded at first that somebody having met with 
his Anecdotes of Painting had a mind to laugh at him, he thought not very ingeni- 
ously, as he was not likely to swallow a succession of great painters at Bristol : now 
the contrary of all this was the truth, and was so proved beyond doubt by the pro- 
duction of a letter from Walpole to Chatterton. He had swallowed all, even the 
succession of great painters at Bristol. Gray and Mason, to whom he afterwards 
showed the poems, at once pronounced them to be forgeries, and he, forgetting Ms 

E 2 



letter to Chatterton, or supposing it not to be in existence, had taken to himself the 
merit of their sagacity. 

In the quarrel between Hume and Rousseau, Walpole, who thought it quite fit to 
defend himself against Chatterton's friends, took Hume to task, in the most lordly 
and contemptuous tone, for publishing a defence against a charge of perfidy made 
by Rousseau, and assured him that Europe laughed at such idle quarrels. In a 
later letter to Hume he gave an instance of a mean art which was peculiar to him : 
no man looked with a more eager eye to literary fame than he did; no man more 
carefully preserved for posterity all that he wrote ; he was well pleased to be dis- 
tinguished as an author among his equals in worldly rank : but in the republic of 
letters he sought to degrade the character of its members that he might stand among 
them unrivalled as a gentleman of rank and fortune ; he pretended to disparage him- 
self that he might lessen his comrades. It was thus he wrote to Hume : " You know 
in England we read their works but seldom, or never take any notice of authors. We 
think them sufficiently paid if their books sell, and of course leave them to their col- 
leges and obscurity, by which means we are not troubled with their vanity and im- 
pertinence. I who am an author must own this conduct very sensible ; for in truth 
we are a most useless tribe." It would be difficult to press more insolence and folly 
into the compass of so many lines. The fact is, as he tells us, that he had a prompt- 
ness to dislike his superiors, and having great powers of ridicule he used them, not 
only to satirize vice and folly, but, as those dangerous powers are too often used, to 
pull down what was too good and great for him to attain ; he sneered at everything 
and everybody, a habit in which no man can indulge with impunity to his own moral 
and intellectual character. 

Yet there were good traits in him ; he revered the fame of his father, and loved the 
memory of his mother ; he was the generous friend of his cousin Marshal Conway, 
and he stood forward almost alone to save Admiral Byng from an unjust and bloody 

If not the best, he is the most amusing of English letter writers, lively, witty, and 
an unequalled describer of the characters and manners of society. It is hard to think 
ill of him after reading the beautiful letter on his revisiting Houghton, and impossi- 
ble not to regret that poor little Strawberry, too, as he sadly foreboded, has been 
stripped to pieces. 

OF 1745. 
To Sir Horace Mann. 
Arlington-street, August 1, 1746. 
I am this moment come from the con- 
clusion of the greatest and most melan- 
choly scene I ever yet saw ! you will easily 
guess it was the trials of the rebel lords. 
As it was the most interesting sight, it 
was the most solemn and fine : a corona- 
tion is a puppet-show, and all the splen- 
dour of it idle; but this sight at once 
feasted one's eyes and engaged all one's 
passions. It began last Monday ; three- 
parts of Westminster-ball were enclosed 
with galleries, and hung with scarlet ; and 
the whole ceremony was conducted with 
the most awful solemnity and decency, 

except in the one point of leaving the pri- 
soners at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity 
of some crowd, and even with the wit- 
nesses who had sworn against them, while 
the lords adjourned to their own house to 
consult. No part of the royal family was 
there, which was a proper regard to the 
unhappy men, who were become their 
victims. One hundred and thirty-nine 
lords were present, and made a noble 
sight on their benches, frequent and full. 
The chancellor was Lord High Steward ; 
but though a most comely personage with 
a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curi- 
ously searching for occasion to bow to the 
minister that is no peer, and constantly 
applying to the other ministers, in a man- 
ner, for their orders ; and not even ready 
at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he 



was peevish ; and instead of keeping up to 
the humane dignity of the law of England, 
whose character it is to point out favour 
to the criminal, he crossed them, and al- 
most scolded at any offer they made to- 
wards defence. I had armed myself with 
all the resolution I could, with the thought 
of their crimes and of the danger past, and 
was assisted by the sight of the marquis 
of Lothian in weepers for his son who fell 
at Culloden — hut the first appearance of 
the prisoners shocked me ! their behaviour 
melted me ! Lord Kilmarnock and Lord 
Cromartie are both past forty, but look 
younger. Lord Kilmarnock is tall and 
slender, with an extreme fine person ; his 
behaviour a most just mixture between 
dignity and submission ; if in anything to 
be reprehended, a little affected, and his 
hair too exactly dressed for a man in his 
situation ; but when I say this, it is not to 
find fault with him, but to show how little 
fault there was to be found. Lord Cro- 
martie is an indifferent figure, appeared 
much dejected, and rather sullen : he 
dropped a few tears the first day, and 
swooned as soon as he got back to his 
cell. For lord Balmerino, he is the most 
natural brave old fellow I ever saw : the 
higbest intrepidity, even to indifference. 
At the bar he behaved like a soldier and 
a man ; in the intervals of form, with care- 
lessness and humour. He pressed ex- 
tremely to have his wife, his pretty Peggy, 
with him in tbe Tower. Lady Cromartie 
only sees her husband through the grate, 
not choosing to be shut up with him, as 
she thinks she can serve him better by her 
intercession without : she is big with child 
and very handsome; so are their daughters. 
When they were to be brought from the 
Tower in separate coaches, there was some 
dispute in which the axe must go ; old 
Balmerino cried, " Come, come, put it 
with me." At the bar he plays with bis 
fingers upon the axe, while be talks to the 
gentleman-gaoler ; and one day somebody 
coming up to listen, he took the blade 
and held it like a fan between their faces. 
During the trial a little boy was near him, 
but not tall enough to see ; he made room 
for the child and placed him near himself. 
When the trial began, the two earls 
pleaded guilty ; Balmerino not guilty, 
saying he could prove his not being at the 
taking of the castle of Carlisle, as was 
laid in the indictment. Then the king's 
counsel opened, and serjeant Skinner pro- 
nounced the most absurd speech ima- 
ginable ; and mentioned the duke of 

Perth, who, said he, / see by the papers is 
dead. Then some witnesses were exa- 
mined, whom afterwards the old hero 
shook cordially by the hand. The lords 
withdrew to their house, and returning, 
demanded of the Judges, whether, one 
; point not being proved, though all the 
I rest were, the indictment was false ? to 
which they unanimously answered in the 
j negative. Then the Lord High Steward 
I asked the peers severally whether lord 
I Balmerino was guilty! All said, guilty 
\ upon honour, and then adjourned, the 
j prisoner having begged pardon for giving 
', them so much trouble. While the lords 
j were withdrawn, the solicitor-general 
| Murray (brother of the Pretender s mi- 
nister), officiously and insolently went up 
to lord Balmerino, and asked him how 
he could give the lords so much trouble, 
when his solicitor had informed him that 
his plea could be of no use to him ? Bal- 
j merino asked the bystanders who this 
| person was ? and being told, he said, 
I " Oh, Mr. Murray ! I am extremely glad 
to see you ; I have been with several of 
your relations ; the good lady, your mo- 
ther, was of great use to us at Perth." 
Are not you charmed with this speech ? 
how just it was ! As he went away, he j 
said, " They call me jacobite ; I am no 
more a jacobite than any that tried me ; 
but if the Great Mogul had set up his 
standard, I should have followed it, for I 
could not starve." The worst of his case 
is, that after the battle of Dumblain, 
having a company in the duke of Argyle's 
regiment, he deserted with it to the rebels, 
and has since been pardoned. Lord 
Kilmarnock is a presbyter ian, with four 
earldoms in him, but so poor since lord 
Wilmington's stopping a pension that my 
father had given him, that he often wanted 
a dinner. Lord Cromartie was receiver 
of the rents of the king's second son in 
Scotland, which it was understood he 
should not account for, and by that 
means had six hundred a-year from the 
government: lord Elibank, a very prating 
impertinent jacobite, was bound for him 
in nine thousand pounds, for which the 
duke is determined to sue him. 

When the peers were going to vote, lord 
Foley withdrew, as too well a wisher ; 
lord Moray, as nephew of lord Balme- 
rino; — and lord Stair, — as, I believe, uncle 
to his great grandfather. Lord Windsor 
very affectedly said, " I am sorry I must 
say, guilty upon my honour." Lord Stam- 
ford would not answer to the name of 


Henry, having been christened Harry — 
what a great way of thinking on such an 
occasion ! I was diverted too with old 
Norsa, an old Jew that kept a tavern ; my 
brother, as auditor of the exchequer, has 
a gallery along one whole side of the 
court ; I said, " I really feel for the pri- 
soners ! " old Issachar replied, " Feel for 
them ! pray, if they had succeeded, what 
would have become of all us?" When 
my lady Townshend heard her husband 
vote, she said, " I always knew my lord 
was guilty, but I never thought he would 
own it upon his honour." Lord Balmerino 
said, that one of his reasons for pleading 
not guilty was, that so many ladies might 
not be disappointed of their show. 

On Wednesday they were again brought 
to Westminster-hall, to receive sentence ; 
and being asked what they had to say, 
lord Kilmarnock with a fine voice, read a 
very fine speech, confessing the extent of 
his crime, but offering his principles as 
some alleviation, having his eldest son 
(his second unluckily was with him) in 
the duke's army, fighting for the liberties 
of his country at Culloden, where his un- 
happy father was in arms to destroy them. 
He insisted much on his tenderness to the 
English prisoners, which some deny, and 
say that he was the man who proposed 
their being put to death, when General 
Stapleton urged that he was come to fight 
and not to butcher ; and that if they acted 
any such barbarity, he would leave them 
with all his men. He veiy artfully men- 
tioned Vanhoey's letter, and said how 
much he should scorn to owe his life to 
such intercession. Lord Cromartie spoke 
much shorter, and so low, that he was 
not heard but by those who sat very near 
him ; but they prefer his speech to the 
other. He mentioned his misfortune in 
having drawn in his eldest son, who is 
prisoner with him ; and concluded with 
saying, " If no part of this bitter cup must 
pass from me, not mine, O God, but thy 
will be done!" If he had pleaded not 
guilty, there was ready to be produced 
against him a paper, signed with his own 
hand, for putting the English prisoners to 

Lord Leicester went up to the duke of 
Newcastle and said, " I never heard so 
great an orator as lord Kilmarnock ; if I 
was your Grace, 1 would pardon him and 
make him paymaster." 

That morning a paper had been sent to 
the lieutenant of the Tower for the pri- 
soners; he gave it to lord Cornwallis, 

the governor, who carried it to the House 
of Lords. It was a plea for the prisoners, 
objecting that the late act for regulating 
the trials of rebels did not take place till 
after their crime was committed. The 
Lords very tenderly and rightly sent this 
plea to them, of which, as you have seen, 
the two earls did not make use, but old 
Balmerino did, and demanded counsel on 
it. The High Steward, almost in a pas- 
sion, told him, that when he had been 
offered counsel, he did not accept it — do 
but think on the ridicule of sending them 
the plea and then denying them counsel 
on it ! The duke of Newcastle, who 
never lets slip an opportunity of being 
absurd, took it up as a ministerial point, 
in defence of his creature the chancellor ; 
but lord Granville moved, according to 
order, to adjourn to debate in the cham- 
ber of parliament, where the duke of 
Bedford and many others spoke warmly 
for their having counsel; and it was 
granted. I said their, because the plea 
would have saved them all, and affected 
nine rebels who had been hanged that 
very morning; particularly one Morgan, 
a poetical lawyer. Lord Balmerino asked 
for Forester and Wilbraham ; the latter a 
very able lawyer in the House of Com- 
mons, who the chancellor said privately, 
he was sure would as soon be hanged as 
plead such a cause. But he came as 
counsel to-day (the third day), when lord 
Balmerino gave up his plea as invalid, 
and submitted, without any speech. The 
High Steward then made his, very long, 
and very poor, with only one or two good 
passages ; and then pronounced sentence. 
Great intercession is made for the two 
earls : Duke Hamilton, who has never 
been at court, designs to kiss the king's 
hand, and ask lord Kilmarnock's life. 
The king is much inclined to some mercy, 
but the duke, who has not so much of 
Caesar after a victory as in gaining it, is 
for the utmost severity. It was lately 
proposed in the city to present him with 
the freedom of some company ; one of the 
aldermen said aloud, " Then let it be of 
the Butchers' ! " Horace Walpole. 




To George Montagu. 

Arlington Street, Sept. 24, 1/61. 
I am glad you arrived safe in Dublin, 
and hitherto like it so well; but your 
trial has not begun yet. When your king 
comes, the ploughshares will be put into 
the fire. Bless your stars that your king 
is not to be married or crowned. All the 
vines of Bourdeaux, and all the fumes of 
Irish brains cannot make a town so drunk 
as a regal wedding and coronation. I am 
going to let London cool, and will not 
venture into it again this fortnight. Oh ! 
the buzz, the prattle, the crowds, the 
noise, the hurry ! Nay, people are so little 
come to their senses, that though the coro- 
nation was but the day before yesterday, 
the duke of Devonshire had forty messages 
yesterday, desiring tickets for a ball that 
they fancied was to be at Court last night. 
People had set up a night and a day, and 
yet wanted to see a dance. If I was to 
entitle ages, I would call this the century 
of crated s. For the coronation, if a puppet 
show could be worth a million , that is. The 
multitudes, balconies, guards, and pro- 
cessions, made Palace-yard the liveliest 
spectacle in the world : the hall was the 
most glorious. The blaze of lights, the 
richness and variety of habits, the ceremo- 
nial, the benches of peers and peeresses, 
frequent and full, was as awful as a pa- 
geant can be ; and yet for the king's sake 
and my own I never wish to see another ; 
nor am impatient to have my lord Effing- 
ham's promise fulfilled. The king com- 
plained that so few precedents were kept 
for their proceedings. Lord Effingham 
owned the earl marshal's office had been 
strangely neglected; but he had taken 
such care for the future, that the next 
coronation would be regulated in the most 
exact manner imaginable. The number 
of peers and peeresses present was not 
very great ; some of the latter, with no 
excuse in the world, appeared in lord 
Lincoln's gallery, and even walked about 
the hall indecently in the intervals of the 
procession. My lady Harrington, covered 
with all the diamonds she could borrow, 
hire, or seize, and with the air of Roxana, 
was the finest figure at a distance : she 
complained to George Selwyn that she 
was to walk with lady Portsmouth, who 
would have a wig and a stick. " Pho," 
said he, " you will only look as if you 

were taken up by the constable." She 
told this everywhere, thinking the re- 
flection was on my lady Portsmouth. 
Lady Pembroke, alone at the head of the 
countesses, was the picture of majestic 
modesty ; the duchess of Richmond, as 
pretty as nature and dress, with no pains 
of her own, could make her ; lady Spen- 
cer, lady Sutherland, and lady North- 
ampton, very pretty figures. Lady Kildare, 
still beauty itself, if not a little too large. 
The ancient peeresses were by no means 
the worst party : lady Westmoreland, still 
handsome, and with more dignity than 
all; the duchess of Queensbury looked 
well, though her locks milk-white ; lady 
Albemarle very genteel ; nay, the middle 
age had some good representatives in lady 
Holderness, lady Rochford, and lady 
Strafford, the perfectest little figure of all. 
My lady Suffolk ordered her robes, and I 
dressed part of her head, as I made some 
of my lord Hertford's dress ; for you know 
no profession comes amiss to me, from a 
tribune of the people to a habit-maker. 
Don't imagine that there were not figures 
as excellent on the other side: old Exeter, 
who told the king he was the handsomest 
man she ever saw T ; old Effingham, and a 
lady Say and Sele, with her hair pow- 
dered and her tresses black, were an ex- 
cellent contrast to the handsome. Lord 
B**** put on rouge upon his wife and 
the duchess of Bedford in the painted 
chamber ; the duchess of Queensbury told 
me of the latter, that she looked like an 
orange-peach, half red and half yellow. 
The coronets of the peers and their robes 
disguised them strangely ; it required all 
the beauty of the dukes of Richmond and 
Marlborough to make them noticed. One 
there was, though of another species, the 
noblest figure I ever saw, the high-con- 
stable of Scotland, lord Errol; as one 
saw him in a space capable of containing 
him, one admired him. At the wedding, 
dressed in tissue, he looked like one of 
the giants in Guildhall, new gilt. It 
added to the energy of his person, that 
one considered him acting so considerable 
a part in that very hall, where so few 
years ago one saw his father, lord Kil- 
marnock, condemned to the block. The 
champion acted his part admirably, and 
dashed down his gauntlet with proud de- 
fiance. His associates, lord E****, lord 
Talbot, and the duke of Bedford, were 
woeful ; lord Talbot piqued himself on 
backing his horse down the hall, and not 
turning its rump towards the king, but 



he had taken such pains to dress it to 
that duty, : that it entered backwards : 
and at his retreat the spectators clapped, 
a terrible indecorum, but suitable to such 
Bartholomew-fair doings. He had twenty 
demeles, and came out of none creditably. 
He had taken away the table of the 
knights of the Bath, and was forced to 
admit two in their old place, and dine the 
others in the court of requests. Sir 
William Stanhope said, "We are ill- 
treated, for some of us are gentlemen." 
Beckford told the earl, it was hard to refuse 
a table to the city of London, whom it 
would cost ten thousand pounds to ban- 
quet the king, and that his lordship would 
repent it, if they had not a table in the 
hall ; they had. To the barons of the 
Cinque-ports, who made the same com- 
plaint, he said, " If you come to me as 
lord-steward, I tell you it is impossible ; 
if as lord Talbot, I am a match for any of 
you ;" and then he said to lord Bute, " If 
I were a minister, thus I would talk to 
France, to Spain, to the Dutch — none of 
your half-measures." This has brought 
me to a melancholy topic. Bussy goes 
to-morrow, a Spanish war is hanging in 
the air, destruction is taking a new lease 
of mankind — of the remnant of mankind. 
I have no prospect of seeing Mr. Conway. 
Adieu; I will not disturb you with my 
forebodings. You I shall see again in 
spite of war, and I trust in spite of Ire- 
land. Horace Walpole. 

To George Montagu. 

June 2, 1759. 
Strawberry -hill is grown a perfect Pa- 
phos ; it is the land of beauties. On 
Wednesday the duchesses of Hamilton 
and Richmond, and lady Ailesbury dined 
there, the two latter stayed all night. 
There never was so pretty a sight as to 
see them all three sitting in the shell ; a 
thousand years hence, when I begin to 
grow old, if that can ever be, I shall talk 
of that event, and tell young people how 
much handsomer the women of my time 
were than they will be then : I shall say, 
" Women alter now ; I remember lady 
Ailesbury looking handsomer than her 
daughter, the pretty duchess of Richmond, 
as they were sitting in the shell on my 
terrace with the duchess of Hamilton, 

one of the famous Gunnings." Yesterday 
t' other more famous Gunning dined there. 
She has made a friendship with my 
charming niece, to disguise her jealousy 
of the new countess's beauty : there were 
they two, their lords, lord Buckingham, 
and Charlotte. You will think that I did 
not choose men for my parties so well as 
women. I don't include lord Walde- 
grave in this bad election. 

Loo is mounted to its zenith ; the par- 
ties last till one and two in the morning. 
We played at lady Hertford's last week, 
the last night of her lying-in, till deep 
into Sunday morning, after she and her 
lord were retired. It is now adjourned 
to Mrs. Fitzroy's, whose child the town 
calls Pam-ela. I proposed, that instead 
of receiving cards for assemblies, one 
should send in a morning to Dr. Hunter's, 
the man-midwife, to know where there is 
loo that evening. I find poor Charles 
Montagu is dead : is it true, as the papers 
say, that his son comes into parliament ? 
The invasion is not half so much in fasliion 
as loo, and the king demanding the as- 
sistance of the militia does not add much 
dignity to it. The great pam of parlia- 
ment, who made the motion, entered into 
a wonderful definition of the several sorts 
of fear ; from fear that comes from pusil- 
lanimity, up to fear from magnanimity. 
It put me in mind of that wise Pythian, 
my lady Londonderry, who, when her 
sister, lady Donegal, was dying, pro- 
nounced, that if it were a fever from a 
fever, she would live ; but if it were a 
fever from death, she would die. 

Mr. Mason has published anotherdrama, 
called Caractacus ; there are some incan- 
tations poetical enough, and odes so Greek 
as to have very little meaning. But the 
whole is laboured, uninteresting, and no 
more resembling the manners of Britons 
than of Japanese. It is introduced by a 
piping elegy ; for Mason, in imitation of 
Gray, will cry and roar all night without 
the least provocation. 

Adieu! I shall be glad to hear that 
your strawberry -tide is fixed. 

Horace Walpole. 

To George Montagu. 

Houghton, March 25, l/6l. 
Here I am at Houghton ! and alone in 
this spot, where (except two hours last 



month) I have not been in sixteen years ! 
Think, what a crowd of reflections ! No, 
Gray and forty churchyards could not 
furnish so many ; nay, I know one must 
feel them with greater indifference than I 
possess, to have patience to put them into 
verse. Here I am, probably for the last 
time of my life, though not for the last 
time : every clock that strikes tells me I 
am an hour nearer to yonder church — 
that church, into which I have not yet 
had courage to enter, where lies that mo- 
ther on whom I doated, and who doated 
on me ! There are the two rival mis- 
tresses of Houghton, neither of whom ever 
wished to enjoy it ! There too lies he, 
who founded its greatness, to contribute 
to whose fall Europe was embroiled ; 
there he sleeps in quiet and dignity, while 
his friend and his foe, rather his false ally 
and real enemy, Newcastle and Bath, are 
exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives 
in squabbles and pamphlets. 

The surprise the pictures gave me is 
again renewed; accustomed for many years 
to see nothing but wretched daubs and 
varnished copies at auctions, I look at 
these as enchantment. My own descrip- 
tion of them seems poor; but shall I tell 
you truly? the majesty of Italian ideas 
almost sinks before the warm nature of 
Flemish colouring. Alas ! don't I grow 
old ? Does great youth feel with poetic 
limbs, as well as see with poetic eyes ? In 
one respect I am very young, I cannot 
satiate myself with looking : an incident 
contributed to make me feel this more 
strongly. A party arrived, just as I did, 
to see the house— a man and three women 
in riding dresses, and they rode post 
through the apartments. I could not 
hurry before them fast enough ; they were 
not so long in seeing for the first time, as 
1 could have been in one room, to exa- 
mine what I knew r by heart. I remember 
formerly being often diverted with this 
kind of seers ; they come, ask what such 
a room is called, in which Su- Robert lay, 
write it down, admire a lobster or a cab- 
bage in a market-piece, dispute whether 
the last room was green or purple, and 
then hurry to the inn for fear the fish 
should be over dressed. How different 
my sensations ! not a picture here but re- 
calls a history ; not one, but I remember 
in Dow ning-street or Chelsea, where 
queens and crowds admired them, though 
seeing them as little as these travellers ! 

When I had drank tea I strolled into 
the garden; they told me it was now 

; called the pleasure-ground. What a dis- 
i sonant idea of pleasure ! those groves, 
{ those allees, where I have passed so many 
charming moments, are now stripped up 
! or overgrown ; — many fond paths I could 
not unravel, though with a very exact clew 
in my memory : I met two game-keepers 
and a thousand hares ! In the days when 
all my soul w r as tuned to pleasure and vi- 
vacity (and you will think, perhaps, it is 
far from being out of tune yet), I hated 
Houghton and its solitude ; yet I loved 
this garden, as now, with many regrets, I 
love Houghton ; Houghton, I know not 
what to call it, a monument of grandeur 
or ruin ! How t I have wished this evening 
for lord Bute ! How I could preach to 
him ! For myself, I do not want to be 
preached to ; I have long considered how 
every Balbec must wait for the chance of 
a Mr. Wood. The servants wanted to lay 
j me in the great apartment — what, to make 
| me pass my night as I have done my even- 
i ing! It were like proposing to Margaret 
Roper to be a duchess in the court that 
cut off her father's head, and imagining it 
would please her. I have chosen to sit in 
my father's little dressing-room, and am 
now by his scrutoire, where, in the height 
of his fortune, he used to receive the ac- 
counts of his farmers, and deceive him- 
self or us with the thoughts of his economy. 
How r wise a man at once, and how weak ! 
For what has he built Houghton ? for his 
grandson to annihilate, or for his son to 
mourn over. If lord Burleigh coiild rise 
and view his representative driving the 
Hatfield stage, he would feel as I feel now. 
Poor little Strawberry ! at least it will not 
be stripped to pieces by a descendant ! 
You will find all these fine meditations 
I dictated by pride, not by philosophy. Pray 
j consider through how" many mediums phi- 
i losophy must pass before it is purified — 

" — how often must it weep, how often burn !" 

i My mind was extremely prepared for all 
j this gloom by parting with Mr. Conway 
yesterday morning; moral reflections or 
common places are the livery one likes to 
I wear, when one has just had a real mis- 
| fortune. He is going to Germany : I was 
glad to dress myself up in transitory 
lloughton, in lieu of very sensible con- 
cern. To-morrow I shall be distracted 
with thoughts, at least images of very dif- 
ferent complexion. I go to Lynn, and am 
to be elected on Friday. I shall return 
i hither on Saturday again alone, to expect 
| Burleigliides on Sunday, whom I left at 




Newmarket. I must once in my life see 
him on his grandfather's throne. 

Epping, Monday night, thirty-first. — 
No, 1 have not seen him ; he loitered on 
the road, and I was kept at Lynn till yes- 
terday morning. It is plain I never knew 
for how many trades I was formed, when 
at this time of day I can begin electioneer- 
ing, and succeed in my new vocation. 
Think of me, the subject of a mob, who 
was scarce ever before in a mob, addressing 
them in the town-hall, riding at the head 
of two thousand people through such a 
town as Lynn, dining with above < two 
hundred of them amid bumpers, huzzas, 
songs and tobacco, and finishing with 
country dancing at a ball and sixpenny 
whisk ! I have borne it all cheerfully ; 
nay, have sat hours in conversation, the 
thing upon earth that I hate, have been 
to hear misses play on the harpsichord, 
and to see an alderman's copies of Rubens 
and Carlo Marat. Yet to do the folks 
justice, they are sensible and reasonable 
and civilized ; their very language is po- 
lished since I lived among them. I attri- 
bute this to their more frequent inter- 
course with the world and the capital, by 

the help of good roads and post-chaises, 
which, if they have abridged the king's 
dominions, have at least tamed his sub- 
jects. "Well, how comfortable it Mill be 
to-morrow, to see my parroquet, to play at 
loo, and not be obliged to talk seriously ! 
The Heraclitus of the beginning of this 
letter will be overjoyed on finishing it to 
sign himself your old friend, 

P.S. I forgot to tell you that my an- 
cient aunt Hammond came over to Lynn 
to see me; not from any affection, but 
curiosity. The first thing she said to me, 
though we have not met these sixteen 
years, was, " Child, you have done a thing 
to-day that your father never did in all 
his life ; you sat as they carried you, he 
always stood the whole time." " Madam," 
said I, " when I am placed in a chair I 
conclude I am to sit in it ; besides, as I 
cannot imitate my father in great things, 
I am not at all ambitious of mimicking 
him in little ones." I am sure she pro- 
poses to tell her remarks to my uncle 
Horace's ghost the instant they meet. 

Horace Walpole. 


the poet, was born at Berkhamstead in Hertfordshire, on the 15th of November 1731. 
His mother died when he was six years old, and he was then sent to school at Market- 
street in that county, where he was treated cruelly, and afterwards to Westminster. 
In 1749 he was articled to an attorney, and had for a fellow-clerk Thurlow, after- 
wards Lord Chancellor. In 1 754 he was called to the bar, but he did not work at his 
profession, passing his time in gay and literary society. In 1 763 he was appointed to 
an office in the House of Lords, and was required to prove his fitness at the bar of the 
House, under an examination which was not expected to be friendly. He thought that 
he was incapable of filling the place, and was in a state of horror and misery until the 
appointed day, when he became insane and attempted to destroy himself. In 1765, 
having recovered, he went to five at Huntingdon, and there became acquainted with 
Mr. Unwin, with whom he lived until 1767 ; in that year Mr. Unwin was killed by a 
fall from his horse, and thenceforward, till 1796, when she died, Cowper lived with 
his friend's widow Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of his poems, the faithful and affectionate 
nurse who devoted her life to assuage the misery of his. Upon Mr. Unwin's death 
they removed from Huntingdon to Olney ; in 1786 from Olney to Weston, a village in 
the neighbourhood ; and in 1795 into Norfolk. 

In 1773 Cowper's malady returned, and from that time till his death he suffered 
more or less anguish of mind ; sometimes in comparative comfort, at others in infinite 
despair. He was under the belief that he had been guilty of an unpardonable sin in 
not committing suicide in October 1773; that he was therefore abandoned by God, 



and had no hope in this world or the next ; but this single delusion affected his under- 
standing only at intervals. He lived in society, and while he suffered, and as a relief 
from suffering, he wrote his poems. He died on the 25th of AprU 1800, at Dereham 
in Norfolk, and was buried in Dereham Church. 

Robert Southey speaks of Cowper as the most popular poet of his generation, and 
the best of English letter-writers. His letters are not so sparkling or entertaining as 
Horace Walpole's, but they are written in a better style. Walpole's style was affected, 
though it became natural to him from habit ; his earliest letters are stiff and forced ; 
Cowper's letters are always easy, and marked by playful wit and a delicacy scarcely 
masculine, the residt, perhaps, of living for very many years almost wholly in female 


To the Rev. John Newton. 

Sept. 18th, 1J84. 

My dear Friend, — Following your good 
example, I lay before me a sheet of my 
largest paper. It was this moment fair 
and unblemished, but I have begun to 
blot it ; and having begun, am not likely 
to cease till I have spoiled it. I have sent 
you many a sheet that, in my judgement 
of it, has been very unworthy of your ac- 
ceptance ; but my conscience was in some 
measure satisfied, by reflecting that, if it 
were good for nothing, at the same time 
it cost you nothing, except the trouble of 
reading it. But the case is altered now. 
You must pay a solid price for frothy 
matter, and though I do not absolutely 
pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, 
and, as the saying is, are never the wiser ; 
a saying literally fulfilled to the reader of 
my epistles. 

My greenhouse is never so pleasant as 
when we are just upon the point of being 
turned out of it. The gentleness of the 
autumnal suns, and the calmness of this 
latter season, make it a much more agree- 
able retreat than we ever find it in sum- 
mer ; when the winds being generally 
brisk, we cannot cool it by admitting a 
sufficient quantity of air, without being at 
the same time incommoded by it. But 
now I sit with all the windows and the 
door wide open, and am regaled with the 
scent of every flower in a garden as full of 
flowers as I have known how to make it. 
We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive 
I should hardly hear more of then- music. 
All the bees in the neighbourhood resort 
to a bed of mignionette, opposite to the 
window, and pay me for the honey they 
get out of it by a hum, which, though 
rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my 
ear as the whistling of my linnets. All 
the sounds that nature utters are delight- 

I ful, at least in this country. I should not, 
] perhaps, find the roaring of lions in 
J Africa, or of bears in Russia, very plea- 
sing; but I know no beast in England 
whose voice I do not account musical, 
save and except always the braying of an 
ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls 
please me without one exception. I 
should not, indeed, think of keeping a 
goose in a cage, that I nrght hang her 
up in the parlour for the sake of her me- 
lody ; but a goose upon a common, or in 
a farm-yard, is no bad performer ; and as 
to insects, if the black beetle, and beetles 
indeed of all hues, will keep out of my 
way, I have no objection to any of the 
rest ; on the contrary, in Avhatever key 
they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to 
the bass of the humble bee, I admire 
them all. Seriously, however, it strikes 
me as a very observable instance of provi- 
dential kindness to man, that such an 
exact accord has been contrived between 
his ear and the sounds with which, at 
least in a rural situation, it is almost 
every moment visited. All the world is 
sensible of the uncomfortable effect that 
certain sounds have upon the nerves, and 
consequently upon the spirits ; and if a 
sinful world" had been filled with such as 
would have curdled the blood and have 
made the sense of hearing a perpetual in- 
convenience, I do not know that we 
should have had a right to complain. 
But now the fields, the woods, the gar- 
dens, have each their concert, and the ear 
of man is for ever regaled by creatures 
who seem only to please themselves. 
Even the ears that are deaf to the gospel 
are continually entertained, though with- 
out knowing it, by sounds for which they 
are solely indebted to its author. There 
is somewhere in infinite space a world 
that does not roll within the precincts of 
mercy, and as it is reasonable, and even 
scriptural, to suppose that there is music 



in heaven, in those dismal regions, per- 
haps, the reverse of it is found ; tones so 
dismal, as to make woe itself more insup- 
portable, and to acuminate even despair. 
But my paper admonishes me in good 
time to draw the reins, and to check the 
descent of my fancy into deeps with which 
she is but too familiar. William Cowper. 


To Lady Hesketh. 

May 1 , 1786 
yourself, my 

You need not trouble 
dearest cousin, about paper, my kind 
and good friend the General having 
undertaken, of his own mere motion, to 
send me all that I ever want, whether 
for transcript or correspondence. My 
dear, there is no possible project within 
the compass of invention, by which you 
can be released from the necessity of 
keeping your own nags at Olney if you 
keep your carriage here. At the Swan 
they have no horses, or, which is equally 
negative in such a case, they have but 
one. At the Bull, indeed, they keep a 
chaise ; but, not to mention the disagree- 
able of using one inn and hiring from 
another, or the extortionate demands that 
the woman of the Bull ever makes when 
anything either gentle or noble is so un- 
happy as to fall into her hands, her steeds 
are so seldom disengaged, that you would 
find the disappointments endless. The 
chaise, of course, is engaged equally, and 
the town of Olney affords nothing else 
into which you could put your person. 
All these matters taken together, and 
another reason with them, which I shall 
presently subjoin, it appeared to us so in- 
dispensable a requisite to your comfort 
here that you should have your own, both 
carriage and horses, that we have this day 
actually engaged accommodation for them 
at the Swan aforesaid. 

Our walks are, as I told you, beautiful ; 
but it is a walk to get at them ; and 
though when you come I shall take you 
into training, as the jockeys say, I doubt 
not that I shall make a nimble and good 
walker of you in a short time, you would 
find, as even I do in warm weather, that 
the preparatory steps are rather too many 
in number. Weston, which is our plea- 
eantest retreat of all, is a mile off, and 
there is not in that whole mile to be found 
so much shade as would cover you. Mrs. 

Unwin and I have for many years walked 
thither every day in the year, when the 
weather would permit ; and to speak like 
a poet, the limes and the elms of Weston 
can witness for us both how often we have 
sighed and said, " Oh, that our garden 
opened into this grove, or into this wil- 
derness ! for we are fatigued before we 
reach them, and when we have reached 
them have not time enough to enjoy 
them." Thus stands the case, my dear, 
and the unavoidable ergo stares you in the 
face. Would / could do so too just at 
this moment ! We have three or four 
other walks, which are all pleasant in 
their way ; but, except one, they all lie at 
such a distance as you would find hei- 
nously incommodious. But Weston, as I 
said before, is our favourite ; of that we 
are never weary ; its superior beauties 
gained it our preference at the first, and 
for many years it has prevailed to win us 
awayfrom alltheothers. Therewas,indeed, 
some time since, in a neighbouring parish 
called Lavendon, a field, one side of which 
formed a terrace, and the other was planted 
with poplars, at whose foot ran the Ouse, 
that I used to account a little paradise ; 
but the poplars have been felled, and the 
scene has suffered so much by the loss, 
that though still in point of prospect 
beautiful, it has not charms sufficient to 
attract me now. A certain poet wrote a 
copy of verses on this melancholy occa- 
sion, which, though they have been printed, 
I dare say you never saw. When you 
come, therefore, you shall see them ; but, 
as I told you in my last, not before. No, 
my dear, not a moment sooner ; and for 
the reason in my last given, I shall dis- 
obey your mandate with respect to those 
of F. Hill ; and for another reason also : 
if I copy them, they will occupy all the 
rest of my paper, which I cannot spare ; 
and if I enclose the original, I must send 
my packet to Palace-yard, and you find- 
ing that the postman passed your door 
without dropping a letter from me, woidd 
conclude that I had neglected to write ; 
and I A\ill not incur such a suspicion in 
your mind for a moment. 

On Saturday, — for sooner than Saturday 
we could not, on account of the weather, 
— we paid our visit at Weston, and a very 
agreeable visit we found it. We en- 
countered there, besides the family, four 
ladies, all strange to us. One of them 
was a Miss Bagot, a sister of my friend 
Walter's ; and another of them was a 
Mrs. Chester, his sister-in-law. Mr. Ches- 


ter, his brother, lives at Chicheley, about 
four miles from Olney. Poor Mrs. Bagot 
was remembered with tears by Mrs. Ches- 
ter; she is, by everybody's account of 
her, a most amiable woman. Such also, I 
dare say, is Miss Bagot ; but the room in 
which we were received was large, and 
she sitting at the side of it, exactly oppo- 
site to me, I had neither lungs nor courage 
to halloo at her, therefore nothing passed 
between us. I chatted a good deal with 
my neighbours ; but you know, my dear, 
I am not famous for vociferation, where 
there are ears not much accustomed to 
my voice. Nothing can be more obliging 
than the behaviour of the Throckmortons 
has ever been to us ; they long since gave 
us the keys of all their retreats, even of 
their kitchen garden. And that you may 
not suspect your cousin of being any other 
than a very obliging creature too, I will 
give you a stroke of his politesse. When 
they were here they desired to see the 
garden and greenhouse ; I am proud of 
neither, except in poetry, because there I 
can fib without lying, and represent them 
better than they are. However, I con- 
ducted them to the sight, and having set 
each of the laches with her head in a bush 
of myrtle, I took out my scissors and cut 
a bouquet for each of them. When we 
were with them, Mrs. Throckmorton told 
me that she had put all the slips into 
water, for she should be so glad to make 
them grow, and asked me if they would 
strike root. I replied, that I had known 
such things happen, but believed that they 
were very rare, and recommended a hot- 
bed rather, and she immediately resolved 
that they should have one. Now comes 
the period at which your cousin shines. 
In the evening I ordered my labourer to 
trundle up a wheel-barrow of myrtles and 
canary lavender (a most fragrant plant) 
to Weston, with which I sent a note to 
Mrs. Throckmorton, recommending them 
to her protection. 

Diies rnoi, ma chere, ne suis-je homme 
tout a fait poli? 

Weston, as I told you, is about a mile 
off, but in truth it is rather more. Gay- 
hurst is five miles off: I have walked 
there, but I never walked thither. I have 
not these many years been such an ex- 
travagant trainper as I once was. I did 
myself no good, I believe, by pilgrimages 
of such immoderate length. The Ches- 
ters, the Throckmortons, the Wrights, are 
all of them good-natured agreeable people, 
and I rejoice, for your sake, that they lie 

all within your beat. Of the rest of our 
neighbours I know nothing ; they are not, 
indeed, many. A Mr. Praed lives at a seat 
called Tyringham, which is also about five 
miles hence ; but him I never saw, save 
once, when I saw him jump over a rail at 
Weston. There is a Mr. Towers at a place 
called Astwoodberry, about seven miles 
off ; but he is a fox-hunter merely : and 
Lord Egmont dwelt in a hired house at a 
place called Woolaston, at the same di- 
stance ; but he hired it merely by way of 
kennel to hold him during the hunting 
season, and by this time, 1 suppose, has 
left it. 

The copper is going to work for you 
again. Fifty gallons of good beer, added 
to seventy, will serve to moisten your 
maidens' lips, and the throats of your 
lackeys and your coachee's, till the season 
for brewing returns, for it does not suc- 
ceed in warm weather. 

Mrs. Unwin sends you her affections ; 
and the words that follow I take from her 
mouth as she delivers them : " Tell Lady 
Hesketh that I have the sincerest com- 
placency in the expectation of her; and 
in observing how all things concur and 
coincide that can bid fair to make her 
stay at Olney agreeable, insomuch that 
she seems only to wave her pen and the 
thing she wants springs up in an instant." 
May heaven bless you, my ever dear, dear 
cousin. William Cowper. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Olney, June 4 and 5, 1786. 
Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to 
fear and quake. What a hero am I, com- 
pared with you ! I have no fears of yon ; 
on the contrary, am as bold as a lion. I 
wish that your carriage were even now at 
the door ; you should soon see with how 
much courage I would face you. But 
what cause have you for fear ? Am I not 
your cousin, with whom you have wan- 
dered in the fields of Freemantle, and at 
Bevis's Mount ? who used to read to you, 
laugh with you, till our sides have ached, 
at anything or nothing ? And am I in 
these respects at all altered? You will 
not find me so ; but just as ready to laugh 
and to wander as you ever knew me. A 
cloud, perhaps, may come over me now 
and then for a few hours, but from clouds 
I was never exempted. And are not you 



the identical cousin with whom I have 
performed all these feats ? The very Har- 
riet whom I saw, for the first time, at De 
Grey's, in Norfolk-street ? (It was on a 
Sunday when you came with my uncle 
and aunt to drink tea there, and I had 
dined there, and was just going hack to 
Westminster.) If these things are so, and 
I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syl- 
lable of them all, then this consequence 
follows, that I do not promise myself 
more pleasure from your company than I 
shall he sure to find. Then you are my 
cousin, in whom I always delighted, and 
in whom, I doubt not, that I shall delight 
even to my latest hour. But this wicked 
coach-maker has sunk my spirits. What 
a miserable thing it is to depend, in any 
degree, for the accomplishment of a wish, 
and that wish so fervent, on the punc- 
tuality of a creature who I suppose was 
never punctual in his life ! Do tell him, 
my dear, in order to quicken him, that if 
he performs his promise, he shall make 
my coach when I want one, and that if he 
performs it not, I will most assuredly em- 
ploy some other man. 

The Throckmortons sent a note to in- 
vite us to dinner ; we went, and a very 
agreeable day we had. They made no 
fuss with us, which I was heartily glad to 
see ; for where I give trouble I am sure 
that I cannot be welcome. Themselves, 
and their chaplain, and we were all the 
party. After dinner we had much cheer- 
ful and pleasant talk, the particulars of 
which might not perhaps be so entertain- 
ing upon paper, therefore all but one I 
will omit, and that I will mention only 
because it will of itself be sufficient to 
give you an insight into their opinion on 
a very important subject— their own re- 
ligion. I happened to say that, in all 
professions and trades, mankind affected 
an air of mystery. Physicians, I ob- 
served, in particular, were objects of that 
remark, who persist in prescribing in 
Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard 
of a patient's life, through the ignorance 
of an apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton as- 
sented to what I said, and turning to his 
chaplain, to my infinite surprise observed 
to him, " That is just as absurd as our 
praying in Latin." I could have hugged 
him for his liberality and freedom from 
bigotry, but thought it rather more decent 
to let the matter pass without any visible 
notice. I therefore heard it with plea- 
sure, and kept my pleasure to myself. The 
two ladies in the mean time were tete-a- 

tete in the drawing-room. Their conver- 
sation turned principally (as I afterwards 
learned from Mrs. Unwin) on a most de- 
lightful topic, viz. myself. In the first 
place, Mrs. Throckmorton admired my 
book, from which she quoted by heart 
more than I could repeat, though I so 
lately wrote it. 

In short, my dear, I cannot proceed to 
relate what she said of the bock and the 
book's author, for that abominable mo- 
desty that I cannot even yet get rid of. 
Let it suffice to say that you, who are 
disposed to love everybody who speaks 
kindly of your cousin, will certainly love 
Mrs. Throckmorton, when you shall be 
told what she said of him ; and that you 
will be told is equally certain, because 
it depends on Mrs. Unwin, who will tell 
you many a good long story for me, that 
I am not able to tell for myself. I am, 
however, not at all in arrear to our neigh- 
bours in the matter of admiration and 
esteem ; but the more I know them the 
more I like them, and have nearly an af- 
fection for them both. I am delighted 
that the Task has so large a share of 
the approbation of your sensible Suffolk 

I received yesterday from the General 
another letter of T. S. An unknown 
auxiliary having started up in my behalf, 
I believe I shall leave the business of 
answering to him, having no leisure my- 
self for controversy. He lies very open 
to a very effectual reply. 

My dearest cousin, adieu! I hope to 
write to you but once more before we 
meet. But oh ! this coach-maker, and 
oh ! this holiday week ! 

William Cowper. 


To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, March 3, 1788. 
One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, 
having taken our morning walk and re- 
turning homeward through the wilderness, 
met the Throckmortons. A minute afterwe 
had met them, we heard the cry of hounds 
at no great distance, and mounting the 
broad stump of an elm which had been 
felled, and by the aid of which we were 
enabled to look over the wall, we saw 
them. They were all at that time in our 
orchard ; presently we heard a terrier, be- 
longing to Mrs. Throckmorton, which you 



may remember by tbe name of Fury, 
yelping with much vehemence, and saw 
her running through the thickets within 
a few yards of us at her utmost speed, as 
if in pursuit of something which we 
doubted not was the fox. Before we 
could reach the other end of the wilder- 
ness, the hounds entered also ; and when 
we arrived at the gate which opens into 
the grove, there we found the whole weary 
cavalcade assembled. The huntsman dis- 
mounting, begged leave to follow his 
hounds on foot, for he was sure, he said, 
that they had killed him ; a conclusion 
which, I suppose, he drew from their pro- 
found silence. He was accordingly admit- 
ted, and, with a sagacity that wovdd not have 
dishonoured the best hound in the world, 
pursuing precisely the same track which 
the fox and the dogs had taken, though he 
had never had a glimpse of either after 
their first entrance through the rails, ar- 
rived where he found the slaughtered prey. 
He soon produced dead reynard, and re- 
joined us in the grove with all his dogs 
about him. Having an opportunity to see 
a ceremony which I was pretty sine would 
never fall in my way again, I determined 
to stay and to notice all that passed with 
the most minute attention. The hunts- 
man having, by the aid of a pitchfork, 
lodged reynard on the arm of an elm at 
the height of about nine feet from the 
ground, there left him for a considerable 
time. The gentlemen sat on their horses 
contemplating the fox, for which they had 
toiled so hard ; and the hounds assembled 
at the foot of the tree, with faces not less 
expressive of the most rational delight, 
contemplated the same object. The hunts- 
man remounted, cut off a foot and threw 
it to the hounds ; one of them swallowed 
it whole like a bolus. He then once more 
alighted, and drawing down the fox by 
the hinder legs, desired the people, w r ho 
w r ere by this time rather numerous, to 
open a iane for him to the right and left. 
He was instantly obeyed, when throwing 
the fox to the distance of some yards, and 
screaming like a fiend, " tear him to 
pieces," at least six times repeatedly, he 
consigned him over absolutely to the pack, 
who in a few minutes devoured him com- 
pletely. Thus, my dear, as Virgil says, 
what none of the gods could have ven- 
tured to promise me, time itself, pursuing 
its accustomed course, has of its own ac- 
cord presented me with. I have been in 

at the death of a fox, and you now know 
as much of the matter as I, who am as 
well informed as any sportsman in En- 
gland. William Cowper. 

To Mr. Johnson. 

I did not write the fine, that has been 
tampered with, hastily, or without due at- 
tention to the construction of it ; and 
what appeared to me its only merit is, in 
its present state, entirely annihilated. 

I know that the ears of modern verse- 
writers are delicate to an excess, and their 
readers are troubled with the same squeam- 
ishness as themselves ; so that if a line 
do not run as smooth as quicksilver they 
are offended. A critic of the present day 
serves a poem as a cook serves a dead 
turkey, when she fastens the legs of it to 
a post and draws out all the sinews. For 
this we may thank Pope ; but unless we 
could imitate him in the closeness and 
compactness of his expression, as well as 
in the smoothness of his numbers, we had 
better drop the imitation, which serves no 
other purpose than to emasculate and 
weaken all we write. Give me a manly, 
rough line, with a deal of meaning in it, 
rather than a whole poem full of musical 
periods, that have nothing but their oily 
smoothness to recommend them ! 

I have said thus much, as I hinted in 
the beginning, because I have just finished 
a much longer poem than the last, which 
our common friend will receive by the 
same messenger that has the charge of 
this letter. In that poem there are many 
lines, which an ear so nice as the gentle- 
man's who made the above mentioned 
alteration, would undoubtedly condemn ; 
and yet (if I may be permitted to say it) 
they cannot be made smoother without 
being the w r orse for it. There is a rough- 
ness on a plum, which nobody that un- 
derstands fruit would rub off, though the 
plum would be much more polished with- 
out it. But lest I tire you, I will only 
add, that I wish you to guard me from all 
such meddling; assuring you, that I al- 
ways write as smoothly as I can ; but 
that I never did, never will, sacrifice the 
spirit or sense of a passage to the sound 
of it. William Cowper. 



known as a poet and not as a prose writer, was born on the 24th of December 1754, 
at Aldborough in Suffolk, where his father was a collector of the salt duties : he was 
apprenticed to an apothecary, but determining to seek a livelihood by literature, came 
to London in 1780. Happily, when brought to actual want, he wrote to Mr. Burke, 
who relieved him, introduced him to his friends, advised him to take holy orders, and 
recommended him to the patronage of the Duke of Rutland. He obtained from 
Lord Thurlow in 1783 two small livings in Dorsetshire. The Duke of Rutland died 
in 1787, and in 1814 his son and successor presented Mr. Crabbe with the living of 
Trowbridge, where he died, on the 3rd of February 1832, and there he was buried. 
He wrote, among other poems, The Parish Register, The Borough, and Tales of the 
Hall ; and is especially the poet of stern truth in common life. 

The following letter is inserted because it tells a very interesting story in a simple 
and manly style, and the result is honourable to the memory of Edmund Burke. 

To Edmund Burke. 

Sir, — I am sensible that I need even 
your talents to apologise for the freedom 
I now take ; but I have a plea which, 
however simply urged, will, with a mind 
like yours, Sir, procure me pardon : I am 
one of those outcasts on the world who 
are without a friend, without employ- 
ment, and without bread. 

Pardon me a short preface. I had a 
partial father, who gave me a better edu- 
cation than his broken fortune would 
have allowed ; and a better than was ne- 
cessary, as he could give me that only. I 
was designed for the profession of physic ; 
but not having wherewithal to complete 
the requisite studies, the design but served 
to convince me of a parent's affection, and 
the error it had occasioned. In April last 
I came to London with three pounds, and 
flattered myself this would be sufficient to 
supply me with the common necessaries 
of hfe till my abilities should procure me 
more ; of these I had the highest opinion, 
and a poetical vanity contributed to my 
delusion. I knew little of the world, and 
had read books only ; I wrote, and fancied 
perfection in my compositions ; when I 
wanted bread they promised me affluence, 
and soothed me with dreams of reputa- 
tion, whilst my appearance subjected me 
to contempt. 

Time, reflection and want, have shown 
me my mistake. I see my trifles in that 
which I think the true light ; and, whilst 
I deem them such, have yet the opinion 

that holds them superior to the common 
run of poetical publications. 

I had some knowledge of the late Mr. 
Nassau, the brother cf lord Rochford ; in 
consequence of which I asked his lord- 
ship's permission to inscribe my little 
work to him. Knowing it to be free 
from all political allusions and personal 
abuse, it was no very material point to me 
to whom it w r as dedicated. His lordship 
thought it none to him, and obligingly 
consented to my request. 

I was told that a subscription would 
be the more profitable method for me, 
and therefore endeavoured to circulate 
copies of the enclosed proposals. 

I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this 
very dull narration, but believe me pu- 
nished in the misery that occasions it. 
You wall conclude, that during this time 
I must have been at more expense than I 
could afford ; indeed, the most parsimo- 
nious could not have avoided it. The 
! printer deceived me, and my little busi- 
! ness has had every delay. The people 
| with whom I live perceive my situation, 
| and find me to be indigent and without 
friends. About ten days since I was com- 
pelled to give a note for seven pounds to 
avoid an arrest for about double that sum 
which I owe. I wrote to every friend I 
had, but my friends are poor likewise ; 
the time of payment approached, and I 
ventured to represent my case to lord 
Rochford. I begged to be credited for 
this sum till I received it of my sub- 
scribers, which I believe will be within 
one month : but to this letter I had no 



reply, and I have probably offended by 
my importunity. Having used every ho- 
nest means in vain, I yesterday confessed 
my inability, and obtained, with much 
entreaty, and as the greatest favour, a 
week's forbearance, when I am positively 
told that I must pay the money or pre- 
pare for a prison. 

You will guess the purpose pf so long 
an introduction. I appeal to you, sir, as 
a good, and let me add, a great man. I 
have no other pretensions to your favour 
than that I am an unhappy one. It is 
not easy to support the thoughts of con- 
finement ; and I am coward enough to 
dread such an end to my suspense. 

Can you, sir, in any degree, aid me 
with propriety? Will you ask any de- 
monstrations of my veracity? I have 
imposed upon myself, but I have been 
guilty of no other imposition. Let me, 
if possible, interest your compassion. I 
know those of rank and fortune are teased 
with frequent petitions, and are compelled 

to refuse the requests even of those whom 
they know to be in distress : it is, there- 
fore, with a distant hope I ventured to 
solicit such favour ; but you will forgive 
me, sir, if you do not think proper to 
relieve. It is impossible that sentiments 
like yours can proceed from any but a 
humane and generous heart. 

I will call upon you, sir, to-morrow, 
and if I have not the happiness to obtain 
credit with you, I must submit to my 
fate. My existence is a pain to myself, 
and ever} 7 one near and dear to me are 
distressed in my distresses. My connec- 
tions, once the source of happiness, now 
embitter the reverse of my fortune, and I 
have only to hope a speedy end to a life so 
unpromisingly begun: in which (though 
it ought not to be boasted of) I can reap 
some consolation from looking to the end 
of it. I am, sir, with the greatest respect, 
your obedient and most humble servant, 
George Crabbe. 


(For Notes of his Life see p. 13.) 

To Mr. Coleridge. 

Dear C. — It gives me great satisfaction 
to hear that the pig turned out so well — 
they are interesting creatures at a certain 
age — what a pity such buds should blow 
into the maturity of rank bacon ! You 
had all some of the crackling and brain 
sauce — did you remember to rub it with 
butter, and gently dredge it a little, just 
before the crisis ? Did the eyes come 
away kindly, with no (Edipean avulsion ? 
Was the crackling the colour of ripe 
pomegranate ? Had you no wretched 
compliment of boiled neck of mutton be- 
fore it, to blunt the edge of delicate de- 
sire ? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it ? 
Not that I sent the pig, or can form the 

remotest guess what part O could 

play in the business. I never knew him 
give anything away in my life. He would 
not begin with strangers. I suspect the 
pig, after all, was meant for me ; but at 
the unlucky juncture of time being absent, 
the present somehow went round to High- 
gate. To confess an honest truth, a pig 
is one of those things I could never think 

of sending away. Teals, widgeons, snipes, 
barn-door fowl, ducks, geese, your tame 
villalio things — Welsh mutton, collars of 
brawn, sturgeon fresh or pickled, your 
potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, 
early grapes, muscadines, I impart as 
freely unto my friends as to myself. They 
are but self-extended ; but pardon me if 
I stop somewhere — where the fine feeling 
of benevolence giveth a higher smack than 
the sensual rarity, there my friends (or 
any good man) may command me ; but 
pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am 
nearest to myself. Nay, I should think 
it an affront, an undervaluing done to 
nature, w T ho bestowed such a boon upon 
me, if in a churlish mood I parted with 
the precious gift. One of the bitterest 
pangs I ever felt of remorse w 7 as when a 
child — my kind old aunt had strained her 
pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole 
plum-cake upon me. In my way home 
through the Borough I met a venerable 
old man, not a mendicant, but there- 
abouts, a look-beggar, not a verbal peti- 
tionist ; and in the coxcombry of taught 
charity, I gave away the cake to him. I 
walked on a little in all the pride of an 



evangelical peacock, when of a sudden 
my old aunt's kindness crossed me ; the 
sum it was to her ; the pleasure she had 
a right to expect that I — not the old im- 
postor — should take in eating her cake ; 
the cursed ingratitude by which, under 
the colour of a christian virtue, I had frus- 
trated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, 
wept, and took it to heart so grievously, 
that I think I never suffered the like — 
and I was right. It was a piece of un- 
feeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to 
me ever after. 

Yours (short of pig) to command in 
everything, Charles Lamb. 

To Mr. Wordsworth. 

I ought before this to have replied to 
your very kind invitation into Cumber- 
land. With you and your sister T could 
gang anywhere : but I am afraid whether 
I shall ever be able to afford so desperate 
a journey. Separate from the pleasure of 
your company, I don't now care if I 
never see a mountain in my life. I have 
passed all my days in London, until I 
have formed as many and intense local 
attachments as any of you mountaineers 
can have done with dead nature. The 
lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet 
Street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen 
and customers, coaches, waggons, play- 
houses ; all the bustle round about Co- 
vent-garden : the watchmen, rattles : life 
awake, if you awake, at all hours of the 
night ; the impossibility of being dull in 
Fleet Street ; the crowds, the very dirt 
and mud, the sun shining upon houses 
and pavements, the print shops, the old- 
book-stalls, parsons cheapening books, 
coffee-houses, steams of soups from kit- 
chens, the pantomimes — London itself a 
pantomime and a masquerade — all these 
things work themselves into my mind, 
and feed me without a power of satiating 
me. The wonder of these sights impels 
me into night-walks about her crowded 
streets, and I often shed tears in the mot- 
ley Strand, from fulness of joy at so much 
life. All these emotions must be strange 
to you ; so are your rural emotions to me. 
But consider, what must I have been 
doing all my life, not to have lent great 
portions of my heart with usury to such 
scenes ? 

My attachments are all local, purely 

local. I have no passion (or have had 
none since I was in love, and then it was 
the spurious engendering of poetry and 
books) to groves and valleys. The rooms 
where I was born, the furniture which 
has been before my eyes all my life, a 
bookcase which has followed me about 
like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in 
knowledge) wherever I have moved, — old 
chairs, old tables, streets, squares where I 
have sunned myself, my old school, — 
these are my mistresses, — have I not 
enough without your mountains ? I do 
not envy you. I should pity you, did I 
not know that the mind will make friends 
of anything. Your sun, and moon, and 
skies, and hills and lakes affect me no 
more, or scarcely come to me in more 
venerable characters, than as a gilded 
room with tapestry and tapers, where I 
might live with handsome visible objects. 
I consider the clouds above me but as a 
roof beautifully painted but unable to sa- 
tisfy the mind ; and, at last, like the pic- 
tures of the apartment of a connoisseur, 
unable to afford him any longer a plea- 
sure. So fading upon me, from disuse, 
have been the beauties of nature, as they 
have been confmedly called ; so ever fresh, 
and green and warm are all the inven- 
tions of men, and assemblies of men in 
this great city. 

Give my kindest love, and my sister's, 
to D. and yourself. And a kiss from me 
to little Barbara Lewthwaite. Thank you 
for liking my play. Charles Lamb. 


To Mr. H. C. Robinson. 

Saturday. 20th January, 1826. 
Dear Robinson, — 1 called upon you this 
morning, and found you were gone to 
visit a dying friend. I had been upon a 
like errand. Poor Norris has been lying 
dying for now almost a week, such is the 
penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong 
constitution ! Whether he knew me or 
not I know not ; or whether he saw me 
through his poor glazed eyes; but the 
group I saw about him I shall not forget. 
Upon the bed, or about it, were assembled 
his wife and two daughters, and poor 
deaf Richard his son, looking doubly stu- 
pified. There they were, and seemed to 
have been sitting all the week. I could 
only reach out a hand to Mrs. Norris. 
Speaking was impossible in that mute 



chamber. By this time I hope it is all 
over with him. In him I have a loss the 
world cannot make up. He was my 
friend and my father's Mend all the life 
I can remember. I seem to have made 
foolish friendships ever since. Those are 
friendships which outlive a second gene- 
ration. Old as I am waxing, in his eyes 
I was still the child he first knew me. 
To the last he called me Charley. I have 
none to call me Charley now. He was 
the last link that bound me to the Tem- 
ple. You are but of yesterday. In him 
seem to have died the old plainness of 
manners and singleness of heart. Letters 
he knew nothing of, nor did his reading 
extend beyond the pages of the Gentle- 
man's Magazine. Yet there was a pride of 
literature about him from being amongst 
books (he was librarian), and from some 
scraps of doubtful Latin which he had 
picked up in his office of entering stu- 
dents, that gave him very diverting airs 
of pedantry. Can I forget the erudite 
look with which, when he had been in 
vain trying to make out a black-letter 

text of Chaucer in the Temple library, he 
laid it down, and told me that " in those 
old books, Charley, there is sometimes a 
deal of very indifferent spelling;" and 
seemed to console himself in the reflec- 
tion ! His jokes, for he had his jokes, 
are now ended ; but they were old trusty 
perennials, staples that pleased after decies 
repetita, and were always as good as new. 
One song he had, which was reserved for 
the night of Christmas-day, which we 
always spent in the Temple. It was an 
old thing, and spoke of the flat-bottoms 
of our foes, and the possibility of their 
coming over in darkness, and alluded to 
threats of an invasion many years blown 
over ; and when he came to the part 
" We'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 
'em sweat, 
In spite of the lies in the Brussels Gazette," 

his eyes would sparkle as with the fresh- 
ness of an impending event. And what 
is the Brussels Gazette now ? I cry, while 
I enumerate these trifles, ' How shall we 
tell them in a stranger's ear?' 

Charles Lamb. 


In the twelve volumes of Public and Private Letters edited by Colonel Gurwood, the 
character of the Duke of Wellington is completely laid open to his cotemporaries ; 
marking, step by step, the whole of his military career, they show forth intellectual 
power for whose grasp nothing was too great or too small; sagacity which nothing 
could escape; a judgement never clouded by passion, and above all, a mind equal in 
every change of fortune : there is not a trace of elation on the day of success, and few 
have had so many, or of depression in difficulty and discouragement, and few have 
had to overcome so much. 

But instead of attempting to draw the character of the Duke of Wellington, it will 
be an easier task to present him in three sketches taken on three great days of his 
life ; the last showing him not directly, but by the impression which he made on a 
man great in another walk. 

On the Evening of the Battle of Salamanca, 22nd July, 1812. 
" The English general had fore-calculated all the superior resources of the enemy, 
and it was only Marmont's flagrant fault on the 22nd, that could have wrung the 
battle from him ; yet he fought it as if his genius disdained such trial of its strength. 
I saw him late in the evening of that great day, when the advancing flashes of cannon 
and musquetry stretching as far as the eye could command, showed in the darkness 
how well the field was won : he was alone, the flush of victory was on his brow, and 
his eyes were eager and watchful, but his voice was calm and even gentle. More 
than the rival of Marlborough, since he had defeated greater warriors than Marlbo- 



rough ever encountered, with a prescient pride he seemed only to accept this glory as 
an earnest of greater things." Colonel Napier. 

At Sauroren, near Pampeluna, \Zth June, 1813. 

" Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the only staff-officer who had kept up with Lord Welling- 
ton, galloped with his orders out of Sauroren hy one road, the French light cavalry 
dashed in hy another, and the English general rode alone up the mountain to reach 
his troops. One of Campbell's Portuguese battalions first descried him and raised a 
cry of joy, and the shrill clamour caught up by the next regiments, swelled as it ran 
along the line into that stern and appalling shout which the British soldier is wont 
to give upon the edge of battle, and which no enemy ever heard unmoved. Lord 
Wellington suddenly stopped in a conspicuous place, he desired that both armies 
should know he was there, and a double spy who was present pointed out Soult, 
then so near that his features cou'd be plainly distinguished. The English general, 
it is said, fixed his eyes attentively upon this formidable man, and speaking, as if to 
himself, said ' Yonder is a great commander, but he is a cautious one and will delay 
his attack to ascertain the cause of these cheers ; that will give time for the sixth 
division to arrive, and I shall beat him.' And certain it is that the French general 
made no serious attack that day." Colonel Napier. 

At Paris in 1815. James Ballantyne's Note of a Conversation with Sir Walter Scott. 

" He had just been reviewing a pageant of emperors and kings, which seemed like 
another Field of the Cloth of Gold, to have been got up to realize before his eyes 
some of his own splendid descriptions. I begged him to tell me what was the general 
impression left on his mind. He answered, that he might now say he had seen and 
conversed with all classes of society, from the palace to the cottage, and including 
every conceivable shade of science and ignorance — but that he had never felt awed or 
abashed except in the presence of one man — the Duke of Wellington. I expressed 
some surprize. He said I ought not, for that the Duke of Wellington possessed every 
one mighty quality of the mind in a higher degree than any other man did or had 
ever done. He said he beheld in him a great soldier and a great statesman, the 
greatest of each." 

Besides those letters of the Duke of Wellington which immediately follow, others 
will be found under the head of Philosophy and Policy. 


Alverca, 23rd August, 1810. 

Sir, — I have received your letter, con- 
taining a complaint against , of the 

quarter-master general's department, that 
he had ill-treated one of your servants, 
into which I shall make inquiry, and let 
you know the result. 

It is impossible however for me to in- 
terfere in any manner with a billet given 
by the magistrate of Coimbra, for an 
officer and his family to be quartered in 
your house. 

I must at the same time inform you 
that I am not a little surprised that a 
person of your rank and station, and 
quality in the country, should object to 
give accommodation in your house, and 

should make a complaint of this officer, 
that he had asked you for additional 
accommodation, when it appears by the 
letter which you enclosed, and which I 
now return, that w r hen you objected to 
give him this additional accommodation 
for which he had asked, he acquiesced in 
your objection, and did not any longer 
require this accommodation. 

The unfortunate situation in which 
Portugal is placed, and the desire of the 
insatiable enemy of mankind to force this 
once happy and loyal people to submit to 
his iron yoke, to plunder them of their 
properties, to destroy their religion, and to 
deprive them of their monarch, has ren- 
dered it necessary to collect in this coun- 
try a large army, in order, if possible, to 
defeat and frustrate the designs of the 



It is the duty of those whose age, 
whose sex, or whose profession do not 
permit them to take an active part in the 
defence of their country, to assist those 
employed in its defence with provisions, 
lodgings for officers and troops, means of 
transport, &c, and at all events not to 
oppose themselves to the granting of this 
description of assistance. These duties 
are more peculiarly incumbent upon the 
rich andhigh in station, who would be the 
first victims of, and greatest sufferers from 
the enemy's success ; unless indeed they 
should be of the number of those traitors 
who are aiding to introduce the common 
enemy into the country, to destroy its hap- 
piness and independence. 

Under these circumstances, I am not a 
little astonished to receive these frivolous 
and manifestly unfounded complaints from 
you, and that you should be the person to 
set the example of objecting to give quar- 
ters to an officer, because he is married 
and has children. 

It is not very agreeable to anybody to 
have strangers quartered in his house ; 
nor is it very agreeable to us strangers, 
who have good houses in our own coun- 
try, to be obliged to seek for quarters 
here. We are not here for our pleasure : 
the situation of your country renders it 
necessary; and you, a man of family and 
fortune, who have much to lose, should 
not be the first to complain of the incon- 
venience of our presence in the country. 

I do everything in my power to alle- 
viate the inconvenience which all must 
suffer. We pay extravagant prices for 
everything we receive, with unparalleled 
punctuality ; and I make it a rule to in- 
quire into and redress even* injury that is 
really done by the troops under my com- 
mand, as I shall into that to which I have 
above referred, of which you complain in 

the conduct of towards your 

servant. The Duke of Wellington. 


To Charles Stuart, Esq. 

Gouvea, 11th Sept. 1810. 
My dear Sir, — It appears that you have 
had a good smart contest with the go- 
vernment respecting our plan of opera- 
tions. They will end in forcing me to 
quit them, and then they will see how 
they will get on. They will then find 
that I alone keep things in their present 

state. Indeed, the temper of some of the 
officers of the British army gives me more 
concern than the folly of the Portuguese 
government. I have always been accus- 
tomed to have the confidence and support 
of the officers of the armies which I have 
commanded ; but, for the first time, whe- 
ther owing to the opposition in England, 
or whether the magnitude of the concern 
is too much for their minds and their 
nerves, or whether I am mistaken and they 
are right, I cannot tell ; but there is a 
system of croaking in the army which is 
highly injurious to the public service, and 
which I must devise some means of put- 
ting an end to, or it will put an end to us. 
Officers have a right to form their own 
opinions upon events and transactions; 
but officers of high rank or situation ought 
to keep their opinions to themselves : if 
they do not approve of the system of ope- 
rations of their commander, they ought to 
withdraw from the army. And this is the 
point to which I must bring some, if I 
should not find that their own good sense 
prevents them from going on as they have 
done lately. Believe me that, if anybody 
else, knowing what I do, had commanded 
the army, they would now have been at 
Lisbon, if not in their ships. 

As for advancing into Spain, the idea is 
ridiculous. I can only tell you, that of 
which I am the most apprehensive is, that 
the enemy will raise the blockade of Cadiz. 
Unless Heaven shall perform a miracle, 
and give the Spaniards an army, arms, and 
equipments, we should be ruined by this 
measure, and then the cause is gone. 

Now, supposing that I am wrong in my 
plan of operations, and the principal officers 
of the British army still more wrong, and 
Principal Souza and the bishop right, and 
that I have it in my power to act offen- 
sively in Spain, how would it be when the 
French army in Andalusia would be brought 
against us? Would the Spanish force, 
which a part of that army keeps shut up 
in Cadiz, be equal to the whole of it in 
the field ? Not unless by a miracle Hea- 
ven would add to their numbers ! 

The intelligence from Madrid is very in- 
teresting. I observe, however, that they 
have omitted a great part of the French 
force in their statement. Regnier's force 
is not mentioned at all. 

I enclose a most interesting despatch, 
which my brother has desired me to send 
you. Let me have it again. 

The Duke of Wellington. 




ToMajor-GeneralCameron, 79th regiment. 
Villa Fermosa, 15th May, 1811. 

My dear General, — When I wrote to you 
last week I felt that I conveyed to you in- 
formation which would give you great 
pain ; hut I hoped that I had made you 
acquainted with the full extent of the 
misfortune which had hefallen you. Un- 
fortunately, however, those upon whose 
judgment I relied were deceived; your 
son's wound was worse than it was then 
supposed to he ; it was mortal, and he died 
on the day hefore yesterday, at two in the 

I am convinced that you will credit the 
assurance which I give you, that I condole 
with you most sincerely upon this misfor- 
tune, of the extent of which no man is 
more capable than myself of forming an 
estimate, from the knowledge which I had, 
and the just estimate which I had formed 
in my own opinion of the merits of your 

You will always regret and lament his 
loss, I am convinced ; but I hope that you 
will derive some consolation from the re- 
flection that he fell in the performance of 
his duty, at the head of your brave regi- 
ment, loved and respected by all that knew 
him, in an action in which, if possible, the 
British troops surpassed everything they 
had ever done before, and of which the 
result was most honourable to his ma- 
jesty's arms. 

At all events, Providence having de- 
prived you of your son, I cannot conceive 
a string of circumstances more honourable 
and glorious than those under which he 
lost his life, in the cause of his country. 
Believe me, however, that, although I am 
fully alive to all these honourable circum- 
stances attending his death, I most sin- 
cerely condole with you upon your loss. 
The DuJce of Wellington. 


To Brigadier-General Sir N. Trant. 

Pedrogao, 21st April, 1812. 
My dear Sir, — I have received your let- 
ter of the 15th, and you will see by mine 
of the 17th, written as soon as I knew 
that your division and that of General Wil- 

son were on Guarda, that I expected what 
happened ; and that I wished you to with- 
draw from that position. 

In fact, troops ought not to be put in a 
strong position in which they can be 
turned, if they have not an easy retreat 
from it ; and if you advert to that prin- 
ciple in war, and look at the position of 
Guarda, you will agree with me, that it is 
the most treacherous position in Portugal. 

I can only say that, as Marmont at- 
tacked you, I am delighted that you have 
got off so well ; which circumstance I at- 
tribute to your early decision not to hold 
the position, and to the good dispositions 
which you made for the retreat from it. 

As to your plan to surprise Marmont at 
Sabugal, you did not attempt to put it in 
execution, and it is useless to say any- 
thing about it. I would observe, however, 
upon one of your principles, viz. that the 
magnitude of the object would justify the 
attempt, that in war, particularly in our 
situation, and with such troops as we, and 
you in particular, command, nothing is so 
bad as failure and defeat. You could not 
have succeeded in that attempt, and you 
would have lost your division and that of 
General Wilson. 

I give you my opinion very freely upon 
your plans and operations, as you have 
written to me upon them ; begging you at 
the same time to believe that I feel for 
the difficulty of your situation, and that I 
am perfectly satisfied that both you and 
General Wilson did everything that officers 
could do under such circumstances ; and 
that I attribute to you the safety of the 
two divisions. 

I shall be at Sabugal tomorrow or the 
next day ; and I hope to see you before 
we shall again be more distant from each 
other. The Duke of Wellington. 

To Sir Charles Stuart. 

Vera, 11th October, 1813. 
My dear Sir, — I have just received your 
letter of the 2nd, and as Marshal Sir Wil- 
liam Beresford had before apprised me of 
the dissatisfaction of the Portuguese go- 
vernment with the British government, I 
am glad to see on what ground this dis- 
satisfaction rests. 

Our newspapers do us plenty of harm 
by that which they insert ; but I never 
suspected that they could do us the injury 



of alienating from us a government and 
nation, with which, on every account, we 
ought to he on the best of terms, by that 
which they omit. I, who have been in 
public life in England, know well that 
there is nothing more different from a de- 
bate in parliament than the representation 
of that debate in the newspapers. The 
fault which I find with our newspapers is, 
that they so seldom state an event or trans- 
action as it really occurred (unless when 
they absolutely copy what is written for 
them), and their observations wander so 
far from the text, even when they have a 
despatch or other writing before them, 
that they appear to be absolutely incapa- 
ble of understanding, much less of stating 
the truth on any subject. 

The Portuguese government and nation, 
therefore, should be very cautious how 
they aUow themselves to judge of the esti- 
mation in which they are held by the 
Prince Regent and his ministers, and by 
the British nation, by the newspaper state- 
ments. They may depend upon it that 
here the Portuguese army and nation are 
rising in estimation every day, and I re- 
commend to them to despise every in- 
sinuation to the contrary. 

Dom Miguel Forjaz is the ablest states- 
man and man of business that I have seen 
in the Peninsula ; but I hope that he will 
not be induced, by such folly as the con- 
tents and omissions of our newspapers, to 
venture upon the alteration of a system 
which, up to the present day, has answer- 
ed admirably ; has contributed in a prin- 
cipal degree to our great and astonishing 
success, and has enabled the Portuguese 
government and nation to render such ser- 
vices to the cause, and has raised their 
reputation to the point at which it now 

I have not leisure nor inclination now 
to enter upon all that I have to say upon 
this subject. I believe however that I 
may claim the credit of understanding 
something about the organization of an 
army, at least of that part of it which goes 
to the subsistence of the troops. If Dom 
Miguel Forjaz will give me that credit, 
you may tell him from me, that if the 
Portuguese troops were separated from the 
British divisions, nay, more, if the British 
departments did not assist the Portuguese 
troops, and they were not considered, as 
they are considered to all intents and pur- 
poses, part of ourselves, they could not 
keep the field in a respectable state, even 
though the Portuguese government were 

to incur ten times the expense they now 

Let Dom Miguel Forjaz bear this in 
mind ; let him understand that if he has 
not his troops in the best oi*der, in the 
best state of equipment, fully found in 
everything they w T ant, and managed with 
intelligence, not only they can acquire no 
honour in, but cannot come out of the 
contest without dishonour; and he will 
see the necessity of keeping matters as 
they are. 

At all events let us keep clear of the 
disputes in which I see that, notwithstand- 
ing the temper with wilich things have 
been managed in Spain, we are getting 
more deep daily with the democratic party. 

All that I can say is, that if we are to 
begin to disagree about such nonsense as 
the contents or the omissions of the news- 
papers, I quit the Peninsula for ever. 

The Duke of Wellington. 

To Lord Beresford. 

Gonesse, 2nd July, 1815. 

My dear Beresford, — I have received 
your letter of the 9th of June. You should 
recommend for the Spanish medal for Al- 
buera, according to the rules laid down by 
the king of Spain for the grant of it. I 
should think it should be given only to 
those who were there and actually engaged. 

I am, as soon as I shall have a little 
time, going to recommend officers for the 
Order of San Fernando, and will apply to 
you for a Portuguese list. 

You will have heard of our battle of the 
18th. Never did I see such a pounding 
match. Both were w : hat the boxers call 
gluttons. Napoleon did not manoeuvre at 
all. He just moved forward in the old 
style, in columns, and was driven off in the 
old style. The only difference was, that 
he mixed cavalry with his infantry, and 
supported both with an enormous quan- 
tity of artillery. 

I had the infantry for some time in 
squares, and we had the French cavalry 
walking about us as if they had been our 
own. I never saw the British infantry be- 
have so well. 

Boney is now off, I believe, to Roche- 
fort, to go to America. The armv, about 
40,000 or 50,000, are in Paris. Blucher 
on the left of the Seine, and I with my 
right in front of St. Denis, and the left 


upon the Bois de Bondy. They have for- 
tified St. Denis and Montmartre very 
strongly. The Canal de TOurcq is filled 
with water, and they have a parapet and 

batteries on the hank ; so that I do not 
believe we can attack this line. However, 
I will see. The DuJce of Wellington. 


the author of The History of the War in the Peninsula, from 1807 to 1814, a book 
of high reputation as regards the art of war, full of minute details of military evolu- 
tions and observations on tacticks, and yet of stirring interest to the unwarlike reader, 
who is carried away into the battles of Napier as into those of Homer. 

If the character of the writer may be judged by his works, — by the incidents which 
he loves to weave into pictures of great events, and the spirit with which he portrays 
them, — to Colonel Napier, — as the following passages from his history bear witness — 
belong devotion to woman, undaunted courage utterly free from cruelty or personal 
hatred, courtesy to enemies, and sympathy with every gallant action, whatever the 
country or condition of the hero. 

September 25, 1811. — The combat of Elbodon. " Montbrun's horsemen passed 
the front ravine in half squadrons, and with amazing vigour riding up the rough 
height, on three sides, fell vehemently upon the allies, but they were checked by the 
fine fighting of the British cavalry, who charged the heads of the ascending masses, 
not once but twenty times, and always with a good will, thus maintaining the upper 
ground for above an hour." 

" In one of the cavalry encounters, a French officer, in the act of striking at the 
gallant Felton Harvey, of the fourteenth Dragoons, perceived that he had only one 
arm, and with a rapid movement brought down his sword into a salute and passed on." 

July 21, 1810. — The combat of the Coa. The French had twice attempted with 
the utmost gallantry to force the long narrow bridge of Castello Bom, and twice their 
columns had been " torn, shattered, dispersed, and slain." 

" The skirmishing was renewed, and a French surgeon coming down to the very 
foot of the bridge, waved his handkerchief and commenced dressing the wounded 
under the hottest fire ; nor was his appeal unheeded : every musket turned from him, 
although his still undaunted countrymen were preparing for a third attempt." 

October 24, 1812. — The French were attempting to pass a bridge at Muriel. The 
English having mined the bridge, one of the arches had been just blown up. 

" The play of the mine, which was effectual, checked the advance of the French 
for an instant, but suddenly a horseman darting out at full speed from the column, 
rode down under a flight of bullets to the bridge, calling out that he was a deserter ; 
he reached the edge of the chasm made by the explosion, and then violently check- 
ing his foaming horse, held up his hands, exclaiming that he was a lost man, and with 
hurried accents asked if there was no ford near. The good-natured soldiers pointed 
to one a little way off, and the gallant fellow having looked earnestly for a few mo- 
ments, as if to fix the exact point, wheeled his horse round, kissed his hand in deri- 
sion, and bending over his saddle bow, dashed back to his own comrades amidst 
showers of shot and shouts of laughter from both sides. The next moment Mau- 
cune's column passed the river at the ford thus discovered." 

September 27, 1810. — The battle of Busaco. " Meanwhile an affecting incident, 



contrasting strongly with the savage character of the preceding events, added to the 
interest of the day. A poor orphan Portuguese girl, ahout seventeen years of age, 
and very handsome, was seen coming down the mountain and driving an ass, loaded 
with all her property, through the midst of the French army. She had abandoned 
her dwelling in obedience to the proclamation, and now passed over the field of battle 
with a childish simplicity, totally unconscious of her perilous situation, and scarcely 
understanding which were the hostile and which the friendly troops, for no man on 
either side was so brutal as to molest her." 

July 22, 1812. — The battle of Salamanca. " Captain Brotherton of the fourteenth 
dragoons, fighting on the 18th at the Guarena, amongst the foremost, as he was al- 
ways wont to do, had a sword thrust quite through his side, yet on the 22nd he was 
again on horseback, and being denied leave to remain in that condition with his own 
regiment, secretly joined Pack's Portuguese in an undress, and was again hurt in the 
unfortunate charge at the Arapiles. Such were the officers. A man of the forty-third, 
one by no means distinguished above his comrades, was shot through the middle of 
the thigh, and lost his shoes in passing the marshy stream ; but refusing to quit the 
fight, he limped under fire in rear of his regiment, and with naked feet, and strerm- 
ing of blood from his wound, he marched for several miles over a country covered 
with sharp stones. Such were the soldiers, and the devotion of a woman was not 
wanting to the illustration of this great day. 

" The wife of colonel Dalbiac, an English lady of a gentle disposition, and pos- 
sessing a very delicate frame, had braved the dangers and endured the privations of 
two campaigns with the patient fortitude which belongs only to her sex ; and in this 
battle, forgetful of everything but that strong affection which had so long supported 
her, she rode deep amidst the enemy's fire, trembling, yet irresistibly impelled for- 
wards by feelings more imperious than horror, more piercing than the fear of death." 

It may be well to close with showing how horrible a thing war is at the best. 

March 1811. — Marshal Massena's retreat from Santarem. " Every horror that 
could make war hideous attended this dreadful march ! Distress, conflagrations, 
death in all modes, from fatigue, from water, from the flames, from starvation ! On 
every side unlimited violence, unlimited vengeance ! I myself saw a peasant hound- 
ing on his dog to devour the dead and dying, and the spirit of cruelty once unchained 
smote even the brute creation. On the 15th the French general, to diminish the en- 
cumbrances of his march, ordered a number of beasts of burthen to be destroyed ; 
the inhuman fellow charged with the execution, hamstringed five hundred asses and 
left them to starve, and thus they were found by the British army on that day. The 
deep expression of pain and grief visible in these poor creatures' looks wonderfully 
aroused the fury of the soldiers ; and so little weight has reason with the multitude, 
when opposed to a momentary sensation, that no quarter would have been given to 
any prisoner at that moment. Excess of feeling would have led to direct cruelty. 
This shows how dangerous it is in war to listen to the passions at all, since the most 
praiseworthy could be thus perverted by an accidental combination of circumstances." 

March 6, 1811. — The same retreat. " This day's march disclosed a horrible cala- 
mity. A large house, situated in an obscure part of the mountains, was discovered 
filled with starving persons. Above thirty women and children had sunk, and sitting 
by the bodies were fifteen or sixteen survivors, of whom one only was a man, but all 
so enfeebled as to be unable to eat the little food we had to offer them. The youngest 
had fallen first ; all the children were dead ; none were emaciated in the bodies, but 
the muscles of the face were invariably drawn transversely, giving the appearance of 



laughing, and presenting the most ghastly sight imaginable. The man seemed most 
eager for life ; the women appeared patient and resigned, and even in this distress, 
had arranged the bodies of those who first died with decency and care." 

The following letter to the duchess of Abrantes is taken from the preface to the 
fourth volume of colonel Napier's book. Under the head of History will be found 
two extracts from the work itself. 


To the Duchess of Abrantes. 

September llth, 1833. 

Madam, — In the eighth volume of your 
Memoires, which I have only just seen, I 
find the following passages : — 

" Toutefois, pourquoi done m'etonner 
de la conduite des Portugais ? N'ai je pas 
vu ici, en France, un des freres d'armes de 
Junot souffrir qu'on imprimat, dans un 
ouvrage traduit de T Anglais, des choses 
revoltantes de faussete sur lui et sur le 

marechal Ney? Get ouvrage fait par 

un colonel Napier, et qui a trouve grace 
devant le ministere de la guerre parce qu'il 
dit du bien du ministre, m'a ete donne a 
moi, a moi la veuve de Junot, comme ren- 
fermant des documens authentiques. J'ai 
du y lire une indecente attaque contre la 
vie privee d'un homme dont on ne pouvait 
dire aucun mal comme militaire dans cette 
admirable affaire de la convention de Cin- 
tra, puisque les Anglais ont fait passer a, 
une commission militaire ceux qui l'avaient 
signee pour l'Angleterre ; et les beaux vers 
de Childe Harold suffisent seuls a la gloire 
de Junot, quand l'original de cette conven- 
tion ne serait pas la pour la prouver. Heu- 
reusement que je le possede, moi, cet ori- 
ginal, et meme dans les deux langues. II 
n'est pas dans M. Napier."* 

It is not permitted to a man to discover 
ill humour at the expressions of a lady ; 
yet, when those expressions are dishonour- 
ing to him, and that reputation and talents 
are joined to beauty to give them a wide 
circulation, it would indicate insensibility 
to leave them unnoticed. 

_ To judge of the talents of a general by 
his conduct in the field has always been 
the undisputed right of every military 
writer. I will not therefore enter upon 

* But why should I be surprised at the conduct of the Portuguese ? Have I not seen here, in 
France, one of Junot's brothers in arms allow the printing, in a work translated from the English, of 
the most revolting falsehoods against him and against marshal Ney ? This work, written by a colonel 
Napier, and which has found favour with the War-office, because it speaks well of the minister of war, 
has been given to me, to me the widow of Junot, as containing authentic documents. There had I 
to read an indecent attack on the private life of a man, against whom, as a soldier, nothing could be 
said in that admirable affair of the convention of Cintra, since the English brought those who signed 
it on the part of England before a court of military inquiry ; and the beautiful verses of Childe Harold 
alone suffice for Junot's glory, even though the original convention were not at hand to prove it. 
Fortunately I myself have that original, and in both languages. It is not in colonel Napier. 

that subject, because I am persuaded that 
your grace could not mean to apply the 
words " revolting falsehoods" to a simple 
judgment of the military genius of the 
duke of Abrantes. Indeed you intimate 
that the offensive passages are those di- 
rected against his private life, and touch- 
ing the convention of Cintra. I think, 
however, your grace has not perused my 
work with much attention, or you would 
scarcely have failed to perceive that I have 
given the convention of Cintra at length 
in the appendix. 

But, in truth, I have only alluded to 
general Junot's private qualities when they 
bore directly upon his government of Por- 
tugal, and by afresh reference to my work 
you will find that I have affirmed nothing 
of my own knowledge. The character of 
the late duke of Abrantes, as drawn by me, 
is that ascribed to him by the emperor 
Napoleon (see Las Cases), and the author- 
ity of that great man is expressly quoted. 
It is against Napoleon therefore, and not 
against me, who am but a repeater of his 
uncontradicted observations, that your re- 
sentment should be directed. 

If your grace should deign to dispose of 
any further thought upon me or my work, 
I would venture to suggest a perusal of 
the Portuguese, and English, and Spanish, 
and German histories of the invasion of 
Portugal, or even a slight examination of 
only a small part of the innumerable, and 
some of them very celebrated periodicals 
which treat of that event. You will be 
then convinced, that so far from having 
wantonly assailed the character of general 
Junot, I have made no slight effort to stem 
the torrent of abuse with which he has 
been unjustly overwhelmed ; and believe 
me, madam, that the estimation in which 
an eminent man will be held by the world 



is more surely to be found in the literature 
of different countries than in the fond re- 
collection of his own family. I admired 
general Junot's daring character, and ha- 
ving enough of the soldier in me to like a 
brave enemy, I have, wherever the truth 
of history would permit, expressed that 
feeling towards him and towards other 
French generals whose characters and 
whose acts have been alike maligned by 
party 7 writers in this country: such in- 
deed has been my regard for justice on this 
point, that I have thereby incurred the 
charge of writing with a French, rather 
than a national bias, as your grace will 
discover by referring to my lord Mahon's 
history of the war of the Succession, in 
which his lordship has done me the ho- 
nour to observe that I have written by 
far the best French account yet published 
of the Peninsular war. 

For my own part I still think that to 
refrain from vulgar abuse of a gallant 
enemy will not be deemed un-English, 
although lord Mahon considers it wholly 
French ; but his lordship's observation in- 
contestably proves that I have discovered 
no undue eagerness to malign any of the 
French generals ; and with respect to the 
duke of Abrantes, I could show that all 
the offensive passages in my work rest 
upon the published authority of his own 
countrymen, and especially of his great 
master the emperor Napoleon, and that 
they are of a milder expression than those 
authorities would have warranted. It is 

however so natural and so amiable in a 
lady to defend the reputation of her de- 
ceased husband, that rather than appear 
to detract in any manner from the grace 
of such a proceeding, I choose to be silent 
under the unmitigated severity of your 
grace's observations. 

Not so however with respect to that 
part of your remarks which relate to mar- 
shal Ney. After carefully re-examining 
every sentence I have written, I am quite 
unable to discover the slightest grounds 
for your grace's accusations. In all parts 
of my work the name of Ney is mentioned 
with praise. I have not indeed made my- 
self a partizan of marshal Ney in relating 
his disputes with marshals Soult and Mas- 
sena, because I honestly believed that he 
was mistaken ; neither have I attributed 
to him unbounded talents for the higher 
parts of w r ar, but this is only matter of 
opinion which the world is quite capable 
of appreciating at its true value ; and upon 
all other points I have expressed admira- 
tion of marshal Ney's extraordinary qua- 
lities, his matchless valour, his heroic 
energy ! 

In the hope that your grace will now 
think it reasonable to soften the asperity 
of your feelings towards my work, I take 
my leave with more of admiration for your 
generous warmth, in defence of a person 
so dear to you, than of any sentiment of 
resentment for the harsh terms which you 
have employed towards myself. 

Colonel Napier. 





Translator of the History of 

Lord Berners was born about the year 1467, and distinguished himself in the reign 
of Henry VII. by quelling an insurrection in the west of England. He was a favourite 
of Henry VIIL, whom he served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and as governor of 
Calais, and by whose command he translated Froissart's Chronicle into English. He 
died at Calais on the 16th of March 1532, and was buried in the chancel of the 
parish church of the Virgin Mary. 

John Froissart, a priest, canon of Chimay, in the Netherlands, was the son of a 
herald painter, and born at Valenciennes about the year 1337. At the age of twenty 
he began to write the history of the wars of his time. In the year 1364 he came 
oyer to England, where he was made secretary to Philippa of Hainault, the wife of 
Edward III., and during a four years' absence from the continent visited the court 
of David II., king of Scotland, and^ Dalkeith the castle of William earl of Dou- 
glas. Returning to Flanders, he afterwards travelled from court to court, attend- 
ing feasts, bridals and tournaments, and collecting materials for his history. In 
1395 he again visited England, and was graciously received by Richard II. at the 
palace of Eltham. He died soon after the year 1400, at Chimay. 

The Chronicle of Froissart is a history of the affairs of Europe from 1326 to 1400, 
during the reigns of our Edward III. and Richard II., told with spirit and simplicity 
and honesty, but thrown together with little regard to order. The early part of the 
work is chiefly taken from the chronicles of John la Bele, a canon of Liege ; but the 
later events, and especially those after the battle of Poitiers in 1356, Froissart wrote 
down as he had seen them or heard them told by noble and great lords and knights 
and squires, as well in France, England and Scotland, as in many other countries. 

According to sir Walter Scott, Froissart breathes in every page the high spirit of chi- 
valry imbibed in the courts and castles where he loved to dwell : yet this praise cannot 
be altogether allowed him. It is true that he delights in acts of valour, munificence, 
and of courtesy to the illustrious and the brave ; but, provided his hero be valiant in 
battle, and treat him sumptuously, he deals gently with crimes against those nobler 
parts of chivalry, — gallantly, good faith, humanity, and the protection of the weak. 


For proof it will be enough to show in one instance to what manner of man he 
ascribes the character of a perfect knight. 

He dedicates a chapter of his history — the twenty-sixth of the third volume — to 
celebrate the great virtue and generosity of the earl of Foix, of whom he says, " This 
earl Gaston of Foix, with whom I was, was then fifty-nine years of age ; and though 
I have seen many knights, kings, princes and others, I never saw any of so fine a 
figure ; his visage was fair, sanguine and smiling ; his eyes grey and amorous, where 
he chose to set his regard : in everything he was so perfect, that he cannot be praised 
too much ; he loved what ought to be loved, and hated what ought to be hated." 

Now this perfect hero bad a cousin, sir Peter Ernalton of Beam, who held the 
castle of Lourde for the king of England against the duke of Anjou ; and when the 
duke offered him much money to give up the garrison, he excused himself, saying 
that the castle was delivered to him on condition, — which he had sworn solemnly by 
his faith in the presence of Edw r ard the Black Prince, — that he should keep it, during 
his life, against all men except the king of England. Then the duke of Anjou treated 
privately with the earl of Foix, and so soon as they had agreed together, the earl 
sent for his cousin Peter to come and speak with him, received him with joy, made 
him sit at his board, and paid him great attention. On the third day of the visit the 
earl commanded sir Peter to deliver the garrison of Lourde into his hands ; the 
knight answered, " Sir, it is true I owe faith and homage to you, for I am a poor 
knight of your blood and of your country, but as for the castle of Lourde I will not 
deliver it to you : you have sent for me to do with me as you please : I hold it of 
the king of England, who set me there, and to none other living will I deliver it." 
The earl, much enraged at that answer, drew his dagger, and exclaiming — " Ah trai- 
tor, sayest thou so ! By my head you have not said that for nought," — struck and 
wounded him in five places. The knight crying, M Ah, sir, this is unkind, to send 
for me and slay me," was cast into a deep dyke, where he died, because his wounds 
were not taken care of. Froissart tells this tale in the chapter next but one before 
that in which he has drawn the character of Gaston of Foix, and adds, that the earl 
had held another of Ms cousins eight months in prison, and had then ransomed him 
at forty thousand francs. 

But the very twenty-sixth chapter itself records a crime still more fearful. The 
earl was separated from his wife, the sister of the king of Navarre. She had per- 
suaded him to lend money to the king her brother, who would not repay it, and she 
durst not return to her husband without the money, for she knew well that he was 
cruel where he took displeasure. Their son Gaston, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, went 
into Navarre to see his mother, and when he was about to return home, entreated 
her to come home with him, which she durst not. Then the king of Navarre, who 
hated his brother-in-law, gave to his nephew a little purse, full of a powder, deadly 
poison, telling him to put the powder on some meat that his father might eat it, and 
that it would make him very desirous to have his wife again, and love her ever after ; 
and the king charged him to let no man know of the powder, or it would lose its 
virtue. All this the boy believed, and carried home the purse, which was found 
upon him. Thereupon the earl his father, without asking a question, stepped for- 
ward with a knife, and w 7 ould have slain his son, but his knights and squires inter- 
fered, weeping and saying, " Ah, sir, have mercy, cause him to be secured and make 
inquiry ; it is probable he knew r not what it was," — and so the boy w r as cast into pri- 
son. The earl caused fifteen of the gentlemen that served his son to be put to death, 
declaring that they must have known of the purse, and ought to have told him that 
his son bore such a thing in his bosom ; and because they did not thus, they were 



cruelly put to death; which, says Froissart, " was a great pity, as some of them were 
as hearty squires as any in the country, for the earl was always served hy good men." 

The young Gaston lay in a dark prison for ten days, and ate or drank little, some 
said nothing ; all that time he lay in his clothes, as he came in, without any company 
either to counsel or comfort him ; he argued within himself, and was full of melan- 
choly, and cursed the time that ever he was born. His father, hearing that he would 
not eat, was greatly displeased, and came to the prison ; he opened the prison door 
and came to his son, having a little knife in his hand, not an inch out of his hand, 
and in great displeasure he thrust his hand to his son's throat, and the point of the 
knife a little entered into his throat, into a certain vein, and the earl crying out, 
" Ah, traitor, why dost thou not eat thy meat !" therewith departed, without saying 
or doing any more, and returned to his own chamber ; while his son instantly fell 

In short, this earl Gaston of Foix, who was so perfect that he cannot be praised 
too much, to whom knights and squires of honour of every country resorted for his 
valiantness, put fifteen men to death because they had not told him of a purse which 
they did not see, and cut his only son's throat with his own hands, because the child, 
sorrowing in his dark prison, did not eat his meat ; and Froissart tells this story with 
pity for the boy, and some for the men, for they were hearty squires, but without a 
word of reproach to the earl. He concludes, " Thus did the earl of Foix slay Gaston 
his son, but the king of Navarre was the occasion of his death ;" and repeats in a 
later chapter, " The earl of Foix was perfect in all things." 

The truth is, that Froissart holds up this monster as the model of a perfect knight, 
because earl Gaston of Foix delighted to hear the canon of Chimay read a book of 
songs that he had collected, and treated him and his horse well, in the castle of Or- 
taise, for more than twelve weeks. It is too much to say of such a chronicler, that 
he breathes in every page the high spirit of chivalry, which required of its votaries 
something nobler than mere brutal courage and the pomp of hospitality. 

Gray, the poet, writing at a time when Froissart's history was less read than it is 
now, says, " Froissart is a favourite book of mine, and it is strange to me that people 
who would give thousands for a dozen portraits (originals of that time) to furnish a 
gallery, should never cast an eye on so many moving pictures of the life, actions, 
manners, and thoughts of their ancestors, done on the spot, and in strong though 
simple colours." 

There is a translation of Froissart's Chronicle by Mr. Johnes of Hafod, which is 
more correct in names and dates, and in other respects executed with greater care 
than that of lord Berners. Sir Walter Scott, however, prefers lord Berners' trans- 
lation as written in the pure and nervous English of that early period, and because, 
living in an age when the spirit of chivalry lived, and the language of chivalry was 
spoken, the author has translated the conversation of Froissart's knights and nobles 
by the corresponding expressions in English, which he, himself a knight and a noble, 
daily used and heard at the court of Henry. Sir Walter adds, in another place, that 
he who would acquire an idea of the language of chivalry cannot too often study the 
work of Bourchier, Lord Berners. 


The Englishmen, who were in three di- 
visions, lying on the ground to rest them- 
selves, as soon as they saw the Frenchmen 
approach, rose up, without any haste, and 

arranged their divisions. In the first, 
which was the prince's division, the ar- 
chers stood in the form of a herse, aud 
the men of arms in the rear of the divi- 
sion. The earl of Northampton, and the 
earl of Arundel, with the second division 



were on a wing in good order, ready to 
assist the prince's division, if there were 
any necessity. The lords and knights of 
France came not to the muster together in 
good order, for some came before, and some 
after, in such haste that they embarrassed 
one another. When the French king saw 
the Englishmen his blood changed, and he 
said to his marshals, " Make the Genoese 
go on before and begin the battle, in the 
name of God and St. Denys :" there were 
of the Genoese cross-bows, about fifteen 
thousand, but they were so fatigued with 
marching on foot that day six leagues, 
armed with their cross-bows, that they 
said to their constables, " We are not well 
ordered to fight this day, for we are not 
in a fit condition to do any great deed 
of arms, we have more need of rest :" 
these words came to the earl of Alencon, 
who said, " A man is in sad case to be 
charged with such sort of rascals, to be 
faint and fail now at most need ! " Also 
at the same time there fell a great rain, 
with terrible thunder, and before the rain 
there came flying over both armies a great 
number of crows, for fear of the ap- 
proaching tempest. Then presently the 
air began to clear up, and the sun to 
shine bright, which was directly in the 
Frenchmen's eyes, and on the backs of 
the English. When the Genoese had 
assembled and began to advance, they 
made a great leap and cry to affright the 
English, but they stood firm for all that : 
then the Genoese made another leap and 
a fierce cry, and stepped forward a little, 
and the Englishmen retreated not a foot : 
thirdly, again they leaped and cried, and 
marched forward till they came within 
shot : then they shot fiercely with their 
cross-bows ; when the English archers 
stepped forward one pace and let fly their 
arrows so regularly and so thick, that it 
appeared like snow. When the Genoese 
felt the arrows piercing through their 
heads, arms and breasts, many of them 
cast down their cross-bows and cut their 
strings, and returned discomfited. When 
the French king saw them fly, he said, 
" Slay these rascals, for they will hinder 
and trouble us without reason :" then the 
men of arms rushed in among them and 
killed a great number of them ; and the 
English still shot their arrows wherever 
they saw the greatest number : the sharp I 
arrows pierced the men of arms and their i 
horses, and many, both horse and men, | 
fell among the Genoese ; and when they i 
were down they could not recover them- ' 

selves, the crowd was so thick that they 
overthrew one another. And also among 
the Englishmen there were certain varlets 
who went on foot, with great knives, and 
they rushed in among the men of arms, 
and slew and murdered many as they lay 
on the ground, both earls, barons, knights 
and squires, whereat the king of England 
was afterwards displeased, for he would 
have preferred to have had them taken 
prisoners. The valiant king of Bohemia, 
called Charles of Luxemburg, son to the 
noble emperor Henry of Luxemburg, al- 
though he was nearly blind, when he under- 
stood the order of the battle, said to them 
about him, " Where is the lord Charles, my 
son?" his men said, " Sir, we cannot tell, 
we think he is fighting:" then he said, 
" Sirs, you are my men, my companions, 
and my friends in this expedition, I re- 
quire you to bring me so far forward, 
that I may strike one stroke with my 
sword:" they said they would obey his 
command, and to the end that they should 
not lose him in the crowd, they tied the 
reins of their bridles to each other, and 
set the king before to accomplish his 
desire, and so they went on their enemies. 
The lord Charles of Bohemia, his son, 
who styled himself king of Bohemia, and 
likewise bore the arms, came in good 
order to the action ; but when he saw 
that the battle was going against them, 
he departed, I know not where. The 
king his father was so far forward, that 
he struck a stroke with his sword, yea 
and more than four, and fought valiantly, 
and so did his company, and they ha- 
zarded themselves so forward, that they 
were there all slain, and the next day they 
were found in the place about the king, with 
their horses tied to each other. The earl 
of Alencon came to the battle in good 
order and fought with the Englishmen, 
and the earl of Flanders also on his part : 
these two lords with their companies 
passed the English archers, and came to 
the prince's division, and there fought 
valiantly a long time. The French king 
would fain have come thither when he 
saw their banners, but there was a great 
body of archers before him. The same 
day the French king had given a great 
black courser to sir John of Hainault, 
and he made the lord John of Fusselles to 
ride on him, and bear his banner ; the 
same horse was taken restive, and brought 
him through all the scouts of the English ; 
and as he would have returned again, he 
fell into a great dyke, and was much hurt, 



and he would have died there if his page 
had not heen present, who followed him 
through all the divisions, and saw where 
his master lay in the dyke, with no other 
obstruction except his horse, for the En- 
glishmen would not issue out of their 
ra iks for the sake of taking any prisoner ; 
then the page alighted and relieved his 
master, who returned not the same way 
that they came, because there were too 
many in his way. This battle between 
La Broyes and Crecy, this Saturday, was 
very bloody and severe, and many a feat 
of arms was achieved that is not related 
here. In the night many knights and 
squires lost their masters, and sometimes 
came on the Englishmen, who gave them 
such a reception that they were always 
nearly slain ; for the Englishmen had de- 
termined to give no quarter, nor accept 
any ransom. On the morning of the day 
of action, certain French and Germans 
by force broke through the archers of the 
prince's division, and fought hand to hand 
with the men of arms : then the second 
division of the English c?me to succour 
the prince's, which was done opportunely, 
for they were then in great danger ; and 
those with the prince sent a messenger to 
the king, who was on a little windmill- 
hill: then the knight said to the king, 
" Sir, the earl of Waiwick, and the earl 
of Oxford, sir Reginald Cobham, and 
others, who are about the prince your 
son, are fiercely engaged and in some 
danger, wherefore they desire you to come 
and aid them with your division, for if 
the Frenchmen increase, as they fear they 
will, your son and they will have much 
ado." Then the king said, " Is my son 
dead, or hurt, or felled to the earth?" 
" No, sir," quoth the knight, " but he is 
hard matched, wherefore he hath need of 
your aid." " Well," said the king, " re- 
turn to him, and to them that sent you, 
and desire them to send no more to me 
on any account, while my son is alive : 
and also say to them, that they suffer him 
this day to win his spurs ; for if God be 
pleased, I wish the honour of this en- 
gagement to be his, and theirs who are 
about him." Then the knight returned 
and told them what the king had said, 
which greatly encouraged them, and they 
repined because they had sent to the king. 
Sir Godfrey of Harcourt would have been 
glad if the earl of Harcourt, his brother, 
could have been saved, for he heard by 
them that saw his banner, that he was in 
the field on the French side, but sir God- 

frey could not reach him ere he was slain, 
as was also the earl of Aumarle, his ne- 
phew. In another place, the earl of 
Alencon and the earl of Flanders fought 
valiantly, every lord under his banner ; 
but finally they could not resist the power 
of the English, and so there they were all 
slain, and many other knights and squires. 
Also the earl Lois of Blois, nephew to the 
French king, and the duke of Lorraine 
fought under their banners, but at last 
they were enclosed by a body of English 
and Welsh, and there slain, notwithstand- 
ing their prowess. Also there were slain 
the earl of Auxerre, the earl of St. Pol, 
and many others. In the evening, the 
French king, who had left about him no 
more than threescore persons altogether, 
whereof sir John of Hainault was one, 
who had once remounted the king, for 
his horse had been slain by an arrow. 
Then he said to the king, " Sir, it is time 
you depart hence, endanger not yourself 
voluntarily, if you have received a loss at 
this time, you will recover it again an- 
other season :" then he took the king's 
horse by the bridle and led him away as 
it were by force. Then the king rode 
till he came to the castle of La Broyes ; 
the gate was closed, because it was by 
that time dark. Then the king called the 
captain who came to the walls and said, 
" Who is it that calleth there at this time 
of night ?" Then the king said, " Open 
your gate quickly, for this is the fortune 
of France." The captain knew then it 
j was the king, and opened the gate and 
let down the bridge. Then the king en- 
tered, having with him but five barons, 
sir John of Hainault, sir Charles of Mont- 
morency, the lord of Beaujeu, the lord 
d'Aubigny, and the lord of Mountfort. 
The king would not tarry there, but drank 
and departed thence about midnight, and 
so rode by such guides as knew the 
country, till he came in the morning to 
Amiens, and there he rested. This Sa- 
turday the Englishmen never departed 
from their ranks for the purpose of pur- 
suing any man, but still kept their ground, 
and always defended themselves against 
all such as came to assail them. This 
battle ended about evening. 

On this Saturday, when the night was 
come and the English heard no more 
noise of the French, then tl>ey reputed 
themselves to have gained the victory, 
and their enemies to be discomfited, slain, 
and fled away : then they made great 
fires and lighted up torches and candles, 



because it was very dark. Then the king 
came down from the little hill where he 
stood : and all that day till then he never 
took off his helmet : then he went with 
all his division to his son, the prince, and 
embraced and kissed him, and said, " No- 
ble son, God give you good perseverance, 
you are my son, and you have acquitted 
yourself nobly; you are worthy of pos- 
sessing a realm :" the prince inclined to 
the earth, and honoured the king his 
father. This night they thanked God for 
their good fortune, and made no boast 
thereof, for the king desired that no man 
should be proud, but that all should hum- 
bly thank God. 

Lord Bernws, translator of Froissart. 


When sir James Audley was brought to 
his lodging, he sent for sir Peter Audley, 
his brother, the lord Bartholomew of 
Burghersh, the lord Stephen of Coffing- 
ton, the lord Willoughby d'Eresby, and 
the lord William Ferrers of Groby, who 
were all his relatives : then he called 
before them his four squires, who had 
served him faithfully that day ; and he 
said to the said lords, " Sirs, it hath 
pleased my lord the prince to give me 
five hundred marks of revenues per an- 
num in heritage, for which gift I have 
done hiin but small service myself; but, 
sirs, the honour I now receive was ac- 
quired by the valour of these four knights, 
who have always served me truly, but 
especially this day ; wherefore, as a re- 
ward, I resign to them the present my 
lord the prince made me of five hundred 
marks of yearly revenues, to them and to 
their heirs for ever, in like manner as it 
was given me : I clearly disinherit myself 
thereof, and inherit them without any 
condition." The lords and others that 
were there looked at each other, and said 
among themselves, " It arises from a great 
nobleness of mind to make this gift." 
They answered with one voice, " Sir, be 
it as God will, we will bear witness of 
this wherever we go." Then they de- 
parted from him, and some went to the 
prince, who the same night determined 
to make a supper to the French king, and 
the other prisoners ; for they had then 
enough provision, with what the French 

brought, for the English wanted provision 
before, for some had had no bread for 
three days. 

The day of the battle, at night, the 
prince gave a supper in his lodging to the 
French king, and to most of the great 
lords that were prisoners. The prince 
caused the king and his son, the lord 
James of Bourbon, the lord John d'Artois, 
the earl of Tancarville, the earl d'Es- 
tampes, the earl Damartin, the earl of 
Graville, and the lord of Partenay, to sit 
at one table, and other lords, knights and 
squires, at other tables ; and the prince 
always served the king very humbly, and 
would not sit at the king's table, although 
he requested him : he said he w r as not 
qualified to sit at the table with so great 
a prince as the king was. Then he said 
to the king, " Sir, for God's sake, make 
no bad cheer, though your will was not 
accomplished this day ; for, sir, the king 
my father will certainly bestow on you 
as much honour and friendship as he can, 
and will agree w r ith you so reasonably, 
that you shall ever after be friends : and, 
sir, I think you ought to rejoice, though 
the battle be not as you wish, for you 
have this day gained the high renown of 
prowess, and have surpassed all others on 
your side in valour. Sir, I say not this in 
raillery, for all our party, who saw every 
man's deeds, agree in this and give you 
the palm and chaplet." 

Therewith the Frenchmen whispered 
among themselves that the prince had 
spoken nobly, and that most probably he 
would prove a great hero, if God preserved 
his life to persevere in such good fortune. 

When supper was done, every man went 
to his lodging with his prisoners ; and that 
night they ransomed many, and trusted 
them on their parole of honour, and ran- 
somed them at a low price ; for they said 
they would set no knight's ransom so 
high but that he might pay it without 
difficulty, and still maintain his dignity. 
The next day, when they had heard mass 
and taken some repast, and everything 
was packed up and ready, they took their 
horses and rode towards Poitiers : the 
same night the lord of Roy had come to 
Poitiers with a hundred spearmen : he was 
not at the battle, but had met the duke 
of Normandy near Chavigny, and had 
been sent by him to Poitiers to defend 
the town till they had further intelligence. 
When the lord of Roy knew that the 
English army were so near coming to the 
city, he ordered every man to be armed, 




and all to maintain the defence of the 
walls, towers and gates : hut the English 
army passed by without approaching, for 
they were so laden with gold, silver and 
prisoners, that they attacked no fortress 
as they returned. They thought it would 
he a great action if they brought the 
French king and the rest of their pri- 
soners and riches that they had taken, in 
safety to Bourdeaux. They made but 
short marches, on account of their pri- 
soners and the great baggage they pos- 
sessed ; they rode no more than four or 
five leagues in a day, and always encamped 
early; and they kept close together in 
good order, except the divisions of the 
marshals, who rode continually in ad- 
vance, with five hundred men of arms, 
to open the passages through which the 
prince had to pass ; but they found no 
opposition, for all the country was so ter- 
rified that every man retired to the for- 
tresses. As the prince proceeded, he was 
informed that the lord Audley had given 
his four squires the present of five hun- 
dred marks which he had bestowed upon 
him. Then the prince sent for him, and 
he was brought in his litter to the prince, 
who received him courteously, and said, 
" Sir James, we are informed that the re- 
venues which we gave you, as soon as you 
went to your lodging, you gave to four 
squires ; we wish to know why you did 
so, and whether the gift was agreeable to 
you or not." " Sir," said the knight, 
" it is true that I have given it to them, 
and I will inform you why I did so : these 
four squires, who are here present, have 
for a long time served me well and truly 
in many great actions : and, sir, at this 
last battle they served me so valiantly, 
that had they never done anything else, 
I was bound to reward them ; and before 
this same day they never received any 
reward of me. Sir, I am but one man ; 
but by their aid and assistance I under- 
took to accomplish the vow I had made 
long before. I should have been killed 
in the battle had it not been for them : 
therefore, sir, when I considered the love 
they bore to me, I should not have acted 
kindly if I had not rewarded them. I 
thank God I have had, and shall have 
enough as long as I live ; I shall never be 
destitute of subsistence. Sir, if this action 
does not meet your approbation, I beg of 
you to pardon me ; for, sir, both myself 
and my squires will serve you as well as 
ever we did." Then the prince said, 
" Sir James, I cannot blame you for any- 

thing that you have done, but rather 
thank you ; and for the valour of these 
squires whom you praise so much, I ratify 
to them your gift, and will again render 
to you six hundred marks, in like manner 
as you had the other." Thus the prince 
and his company went forward and passed 
through Poitou and Saintonge without 
injury, and came to Blaye, and there 
passed the river Garonne, and arrived at 
the good city of Bourdeaux. The great 
feast and welcome that the inhabitants of 
the city, together with the clergy made to 
the prince, and how honourably they were 
there received, cannot be described. The 
prince brought the French king into the 
abbey of St. Andrew, and there they both 
lodged, the king in one part and the prince 
in another. The prince, with those of 
Gascony and England, remained still at 
Bourdeaux till it was Lent, in great mirth 
and revelry, and they foolishly spent the 
gold and silver they had taken. In En- 
gland also there was great joy when they 
heard of the battle of Poitiers, of the dis- 
comfiture of the French army, and the 
taking of their king. Great solemnities 
were made in all churches, and many 
fires and wakes throughout all England. 
The knights and squires who had come 
home from that expedition were much 
made of, and praised more than any 

Lord Berners, translator of Froissart. 


All this season the lord Geoffrey of 
Chargny was in the town of St. Omers, 
and kept the frontiers there, directing 
everything touching the war, as though 
he were king. Then he bethought him 
that the Lombards were naturally covet- 
ous ; wherefore he determined to attempt 
to get the town of Calais, whereof Aymery 
of Pavie, a Lombard, was captain : and 
by reason of the truce they of St. Omers 
might go to Calais, and they of Calais to 
St. Omers, so that they daily resorted 
together to sell their merchandize. Then 
sir Geoffrey secretly commenced a treaty 
with sir Aymery of Pavie, so that he pro- 
mised to deliver into the hands of the 
Frenchmen, the town and castle of Ca- 
lais for twenty thousand crowns. This 
was not done so secretly but that the 
king of England had intelligence thereof. 
Upon this the king sent for Aymery of 



Pavie to conie into England to West- 
minster to speak with him, and so he 
came over, for he thought that the king 
had not heard of that matter, he supposed 
he had done it so secretly. "When the 
king saw him he took him apart and said, 
" Thou knowest well that I have given 
thee in keeping the thing in this world 
that I love best next to my wife and 
children ; that is to say, the town and 
castle of Calais, and thou hast sold it to 
the Frenchmen, wherefore you have well 
deserved to die." Then the Lombard 
knelt down and said, "Ah, noble king ! 
I beseech you to have mercy ; what you 
say is true, but, sir, the bargain may easily 
be broken, for I have not as yet received 
a penny." The king had much loved the 
Lombard, and said, " Aymery, I wish that 
you should proceed in your bargain, and 
let me have previous intelligence of the 
day you appoint to deliver up the town ; 
and on this condition I forgive you this 
trespass." So thereupon the Lombard 
returned to Calais, and kept this matter 
secret. Then sir Geoffrey de Chargny 
expected certainly to have Calais, and as- 
sembled five hundred spearmen secretly ; 
his intentions were not known to many. 
I think he never made the French king 
acquainted with his design ; for if he had, 
surely the king would not have consented 
thereto, because of the truce. This Lom- 
bard had appointed to deliver the castle 
the first night of the new year, of which 
he sent intelligence by a brother of Ins, 
to the king of England. 

"When the king of England knew the 
day appointed, he departed out of England 
with three hundred men of arms, and six 
hundred archers, and took shipping at 
Dover, and in the evening arrived at 
Calais so secretly that no man knew 
thereof, and went and laid his men in 
ambuscade in the chambers and towers 
within the castle. Then the king said to 
Sir Walter of Manny, " I wish you to be 
chief of this enterprize, for I and my son 
the prince will fight under your banner." 
The lord Geoffrey of Chargny the last day 
of December, at night, departed from 
Arras with all his company, and came 
near Calais about midnight, and there 
tarried for his company, and sent two 
squires to the postern-gate of the castle 
of Calais, and there they found sir Aymery 
ready. Then they asked him if it were 
time the lord Geoffrey should come, and 
the Lombard said yes. Then they re- 
turned to their master and informed him 

of what the Lombard said • then he made 
his men pass Nieullet bridge in good order 
of battle, and sent twelve knights with a 
hundred men of arms, to go and take 
possession of the castle of Calais, for he 
thought if he could possess the castle, he 
should soon obtain the town, seeing he 
had so good a number of men with him, 
and might have more daily if he chose. 
And he delivered to the lord Odoart de 
Renty twenty thousand crowns, to pay 
the Lombard, while sir Geoffrey remained 
privately in the fields with his banner 
before him. He intended to enter the 
town by the gate, or not at all. The 
Lombard had let down the bridge of the 
postern, and suffered the hundred men of 
j arms to enter peaceably, and sir Odoart 
! there delivered twenty thousand crowns 
J in a bag to the Lombard, who said, " I 
trust the whole is here, for I have not 
now leisure to tell them, as it will soon 
I be day :" then he cast the bag with the 
crowns into a coffer, and said to the 
Frenchmen, " Come on sirs, you shall 
enter into the donjon, then you may be 
certain of being lords of the castle." 
They went thither, and he drew aside 
the bar and the gate opened. Within 
this tower was the king of England with 
tw r o hundred spearmen, who issued out 
with their swords and axes in their hands, 
crying " Manny ! Manny ! to the rescue ! 
what ! mean the Frenchmen with so few 
to gain the castle of Calais ! ! " Then the 
French saw resistance availed nothing 
and so surrendered, wherefore there were 
but few wounded. Then they were im- 
prisoned in the same tower. The En- 
glishmen issued out of the castle into the 
town and mounted their horses, for they 
had all the prisoners' horses : then the 
archers rode to Boulogne gate, where sir 
Geoffrey was with his banner before him, 
of gules three scutcheons of silver : he 
had a great desire to be the first to enter 
the town : he said to the knights about 
him, " Unless this Lombard open the gate 
shortly we are like to die here for cold." 
" In the name of God, sir," said Pepin de 
Werre, " Lombards are malicious and sub- 
tle people ; he is now counting your crowns 
and looking if they are good." By this time 
the king of England and the prince his son 
were at the gate, under the banner of sir 
Walter of Manny, with many other ban- 
ners, viz. the earl of Stafford, the earl of 
Suffolk, the lord John Montacute, brother 
to the earl of Salisbury, the lord Beau- 
champ, the lord Berkeley, and the lord 



Delawar, who were all the lords that had 
banners in this engagement. Then the 
great gate was set open and they all issued 
out. When the Frenchmen saw this, and 
heard them cry " Manny, to the rescue !" 
they discovered they were betrayed. Then 
sir Godfrey said to his company, " Sirs, 
if we fly we shall surely be lost, so it 
were better to fight with a good heart, 
hoping for victory." The English heard 
this, and said, " By St. George you speak 
truth, shame be to him that flyeth." The 
Frenchmen alighted, and putting their 
horses aside, arranged themselves in order 
of battle. When the king saw that, he 
stood still and said, " Let us prepare for 
battle, for our enemies will await us." 
The king sent part of his company to 
Nieullet bridge, for he heard there were a 
great number of Frenchmen at that place. 
Then thither went six banners and three 
hundred archers, who found the lord 
Moreau de Fiennes and the lord of Crequi 
keeping the bridge ; and between the 
bridge and Calais there were many archers 
of St. Omers and Aire, so there was a se- 
vere conflict, and more than six hundred 
Frenchmen slain and drowned, for they 
were soon discomfited and driven into the 
water. This was early in the morning, 
but it was soon light. The Frenchmen 
kept their ground for a time, and many 
noble deeds were done by both parties ; 
but the Englishmen continued to increase 
by supplies from Calais as their enemies 
abated. The Frenchmen saw they could 
not long keep the bridge, so those who 
-.had their horses by them mounted and 
fled, and the English pursued and over- 
threw many : those that had good horses 
escaped, as the lord Fiennes, the lord 
Crequi, the lord of Sempy, the lord of 
Lonchinleich, and the lord of Namur: 
and many were taken by their own folly 
that might have escaped. When it 
was day, so that they could see each 
other, some of the French knights and 
squires reassembled and valiantly turned 
and engaged the English, so that some 
of the Frenchmen took many prisoners, 
and thereby gained both honour and 

The king, who was there unknown by 
his enemies, under the banner of Sir Wal- 
ter of Manny, was on foot among his men, 
to seek his enemies, who stood close to- 
gether with their spears five feet long. At 
the first meeting there was a desperate 
rencontre, and the king met the lord 
Eustace of Ribeaumont, a strong and 

hardy knight ; there was a long fight be- 
tween them, glorious to behold ; at last 
they were separated by the approach of a 
great company of both parties, who fought 
there nobly. The French acted there very 
valiantly, but especially the lord Eustace 
of Ribeaumont, who on that day struck 
the king twice on his knees, but was at 
length taken by him, and so he yielded 
his sword to the king, and said, " Sir 
knight, I yield as your prisoner:" he 
knew not then that it was the king, and 
so the action was favourable to the king 
of England; and all those with sir Geoffrey 
were slain or taken. There was slain sir 
Henry of Bois, and sir Pepin de Werre, 
and sir Geoffrey was taken. This engage- 
ment took place near Calais, in the year 
of our Lord 1348, the last day of Decem- 
ber, approaching the next morning. 

When this battle was finished the king 
returned again to the castle of Calais, and 
caused all the prisoners to be brought 
thither. Then the Frenchmen discovered 
that the king had been in the engagement 
personally, under the banner of sir Walter 
of Manny. The king said he would give 
them all a supper that night in the castle 
of Calais. The hour of supper came, and 
the tables were covered, and the king and 
his knights were there in readiness, every 
man in new apparel ; and the Frenchmen 
also were there, and made good cheer, al- 
though they were prisoners. The king 
sat down, and the lords and knights about 
him very honourably. The prince, lords 
and knights of England served the king 
at the first mess, and at the second they 
sat down at another table. They were all 
well served, and at great ease. Then 
when supper was done and the tables 
taken away, the king remained still in the 
hall with his knights and with the French- 
men, and he was bare-headed, saving a 
chaplet of fine pearls that he wore on his 
head. Then the king went from one to 
another of the Frenchmen ; and when he 
came to sir Geoffrey of Chargny he changed 
his countenance a little, and looked on 
him and said, " Sir Geoffrey, be assured 
that I can have but little love for you, 
when you would attempt to steal by night 
from me that thing which I have so dearly 
bought, and which hath cost me so great 
an expense ; I am very glad that I have 
taken you in the act. You would have 
had a better market than I have had, 
when you thought to have obtained Calais 
for twenty thousand crowns ; but God 
hath assisted me, and you have failed in 



your purpose:" and therewith the king 
went from him, and he spoke not a word 
in answer. Then the king came to sir 
Eustace of Riheaumont, and joyously he 
said to him, " Sir Eustace, you are the 
knight in the world that I have seen most 
valiantly assail his enemies and defend 
himself, for I never found a knight that 
gave me so much lahour, hody to hody, 
as you have done this day ; wherefore I 
give you the palm, above all the knights 
of my court, by just sentence." Then the 
king took the chaplet that was upon his 
head, being both fair, goodly and rich, 

and said, " Sir Eustace, I give you this 
chaplet for having achieved the noblest 
deeds of arms, of either party, in this last 
encounter; and I desire you to wear it 
this year, for the love of me. I know 
well that you are vigorous and amorous, 
and are frequently in company with ladies 
and damsels ; say, wheresoever you may 
be, that I gave it to you ; and I liberate 
you from your imprisonment, and acquit 
your ransom, and you are at liberty to de- 
part to-morrow if it please you." 

Lord Berners, translator of Froissart. 


was born in the year 1480, in Milk-street, London, and was educated at St. Anthony's 
school in Threadneedle-street, and in Canterbury College, Oxford. He studied the 
law at New Inn, and, removing to Lincoln's Inn, practised at the bar with great suc- 
cess, and having had several employments under Henry VIII. , whom he assisted in 
his controversy with Luther, was made Lord Chancellor in 1529, after Wolsey's down- 
fall. In 1533, upon the King's marriage with Anne Boleyn, in defiance of the Pope's 
sentence, More resigned the seals. Being thrown into prison for refusing to take the 
oath of allegiance to the king's heirs by Queen Anne, and for denying the king's 
supremacy, he was tried for high treason and executed at Tower Hill on the 6th July 
1535 : his body was buried in Chelsea Church, and his head, after it had been exposed 
for fourteen days on London Bridge, at St. Dunstan's Church, Canterbury. 

In the Utopia, the picture of an imaginary commonwealth, which he wrote in Latin 
in 1516, sir Thomas More had taught the right to freedom in religion, but his prac- 
tice, when he became Chancellor, was sadly at variance with his doctrine. He was 
active in torturing and burning heretics : it has been said in excuse for him, that he 
was bound to administer the laws as he found them ; but as he did well to resign the 
seals rather than sin against his own conscience, so he would have done well to resign 
them rather than become a party in burning others because they would not sin against 
their consciences. Except this blot on his character, there is but one fault charged 
against sir Thomas More, that he was witty out of season as well as in season ; he 
jested with a poor man accused before him of heresy, and gave him his life in ex- 
change for a jest, and, on the point of death, he jested with all around him at the 

On the other hand, he was wise, learned, just, a hater of bribes, brave in with- 
standing the king's anger, and a most kind husband, father and friend. A strange 
instance of his good-nature has been handed down. When he was a bachelor he 
visited an acquaintance who had three daughters, with the hope of finding a wife in 
one of them ; his inclination led him to the second, but he chose her elder sister, for 
he considered it would be a grief and some blemish to the eldest should he act 

He married a widow for his second wife, and Erasmus, who visited him at Chelsea 
after the second marriage, says, " There is not any man living so affectionate to his 



children as he ; and he loveth his old wife as well as if she were a young maid." His 
children well repaid his affection. When he was brought from Westminster to the 
Tower, Margaret Roper, his eldest daughter, waited on the Tower Wharf, and " hasten- 
ing towards him, without consideration or care of herself, pressing in amongst the 
throng and the arms of the guard, that with halberds and bills went around him, ran 
to him, and openly, in presence of them all, embraced him, took him about the neck 
and kissed him. He, well liking her most natural and dear daughterly affection, gave 
her again his fatherly blessing. After she was departed, she, like one that had for- 
gotten herself, being aR ravished with the entire love of her dear father, having 
respect neither to herself nor to the multitude, turned back, ran to him as before, 
took him about the neck, and divers times kissed him most lovingly ; the beholding 
of which made many who were present, for the very sorrow thereof, to weep and 

The extract which follows is taken from sir Thomas More's History of Richard III. 
Horace Walpole, and others after him, have doubted the murder of the young princes 
in the Tower, but perhaps without good reason. Richard III. has been accused of 
many crimes which he did not commit ; but as to this, his nephews were in his cus- 
tody in the Tower, he usurped the throne, and they disappeared ; he was believed all 
over Europe to be guilty of their murder, and made no denial or inquiry; and in the 
reign of Charles II. the skeletons of two children were accidentally found in such a 
place as that in which the bodies of the princes were said to have been buried. It 
has been supposed that the baUad of the Babes in the Wood may have been written 
in the reign of Richard III., to express covertly the common detestation of this 

The defence of sir Thomas More, on his trial for high treason, is given under the 
title of Speeches. 


King Richard, after his coronation, 
taking his way to Gloucester to visit (in 
his new honour) the town of which he 
bare the name of his old, devised (as he 
rode) to fulfil the thing which he before 
had intended. And for so much as his 
mind gave him, that his nephews living, 
men would not reckon that he could have 
right to the realm : he thought therefore 
without delay to rid them, as though the 
killing of his kinsmen could amend his 
cause and make him a kindly king ; where- 
upon he sent one John Greene (whom he 
speciaUy trusted) unto sir Robert Braken- 
berie, constable of the Tower, with a 
letter and credence also, that the same sir 
Robert should in anywise put the two 
children to death. 

This John Greene did his errand unto 
Brakenberie, kneeling before our lady in 
the Tower, who plainly answered, that he 
would never put them to death to die 
therefore; with which answer John Greene 
returning, recounted the same to king 

Richard at Warwick, yet in his way. 
Wherewith he took such displeasure and 
thought, that the same night he said unto 
a secret page of his, " Ah ! whom shaU a 
man trust ? those that I have brought up 
myself, those that I had thought would 
most surely serve me, even these fail me, 
and at my commandment wiU do nothing 
for me." " Sir (quoth his page) there 
lyeth one on your pallet without, that I 
dare weU say, to do your grace pleasure, 
the thing were right hard that he would 
refuse." Meaning this by sir James Tir- 
rell, which was a man of right goodly 
personage, and for nature's gifts worthy 
to have served a much better prince, if he 
had well served God, and by grace ob- 
tained as much truth and good-wall as he 
had strength and wit. 

The man had a high heart, and sore 
longed upward, not rising yet so fast as 
he had hoped, being hindered and kept 
under by the means of sir Richard Rat- 
cliffe and sir William Catesbie, which 
longing for no more partners of the 
prince's favour ; and namely, not for him, 
whose pride they wist would bear no 
peer, kept him by secret drifts out of all 



secret trust, which thing this page well 
had marked and known. Wherefore this 
occasion offered, of very special friendship 
he took his time to put him forward, and 
by such wise do him good, that all the 
enemies he had (except the devil) could 
never have done him so much hurt. For 
upon this page's words king Richard 
arose and came out into the pallet cham- 
ber, on which he found in bed sir James 
and sir Thomas Tirrells, of person like and 
brethren of blood, but nothing of kin in 

Then said the king merrily to them, 
" What, sirs, be ye in bed so soon ?" and 
calling up sir James, brake to him secretly 
his mind in this mischievous matter ; in 
which he found him nothing strange. 
Wherefore on the morrow he sent him to 
Brakenberie with a letter, by which he 
was commanded to deliver sir James all 
the keys of the Tower for one night, to 
the end he might there accomplish the 
king's pleasure in such things as he had 
given him commandment. After which 
letter delivered, and the keys received, sir 
James appointed the night next ensuing 
to destroy them, devising before and pre- 
paring the means. The prince (as soon 
as the protector left that name, and took 
himself as king) had it shown unto him 
that he should not reign, but his uncle 
should have the crown. At which word 
the prince, sore abashed, began to sigh, 
and said, " Alas ! I would my uncle would 
let me have my life yet, though I lose my 

Then he that told him the tale used 
him with good words, and put him in the 
best comfort he could. But forthwith 
was the prince and his brother both shut 
up, and all other removed from them, only 
one (called Black Will, or William Slaugh- 
ter) excepted, set to serve them and see 
them sure. After which time the prince 
never tied his points, nor ought rought 
(cared) of himself; but with that young 
babe his brother, lingered with thought 
and heaviness until this traitorous death 
delivered them of that wretchedness. For 
sir James Tirrell devised, that they should 
be murdered in their beds. To the exe- 
cution whereof he appointed Miles For- 
rest, one of the four that kept them, a 
fellow fleshed in murder beforetime. To 
him he joined one John Dighton, his own 
horsekeeper, a big, broad, square and 
strong knave. 

Then all the other being removed from 
them, this Miles Forrest and John Digh- 

ton, about midnight (the silly children 
lying in their beds) came into the cham- 
ber, and suddenly lapping them up among 
the clothes, so to bewrapped them and 
betangled them, keeping down by force 
the feather bed and pillows hard unto 
their mouths, that within a while, smo- 
thered and stifled, their breath failing, 
they gave up to God their innocent souls, 
into the joys of heaven, leaving to the 
tormentors their bodies dead in the bed. 
Which after that the wretches perceived, 
first by the struggling with the pains of 
death, and after long lying still, to be 
thoroughly dead, they laid their bodies- 
naked out upon the bed, and fetched sir 
James to see them ; which, upon the sight 
of them, caused those murderers to bury 
them at the stair foot, meetly deep in the 
ground, under a great heap of stones. 

Then rode sir James in great haste to 
king Richard, and showed him all the 
manner of the murder; who gave him 
great thanks, and (as some say) there 
made him knight. But he allowed not 
(as I have heard) the burying in so vile a 
corner, saying, that he would have them 
buried in a better place, because they 
were a king's sons. Lo, the honourable 
courage of a king. Whereupon they say, 
J that a priest of sir Robert Brakenberie's 
| took up the bodies again, and secretly in- 
terred them in such place, as by the occa- 
sion of his death, which only knew it, 
could never since come to light. Very 
truth is it, and well known, that at such 
time as sir James Tirrell was in the 
Tower, for treason committed against the 
most famous prince king Henry VII., 
both Dighton and he were examined, and 
confessed the murder in manner above 
written ; but whither the bodies were re- 
moved they coidd nothing tell. 

And thus (as I have learned of them 
that much knew, and little cause had to 
lie) were these two noble princes, these 
innocent tender children, born of most 
royal blood, brought up in great wealth, 
likely long to live, reign and rule in the 
realm, by traitorous tyranny, taken, de- 
prived of their estate, shortly shut up in 
prison, and privily slain and murdered, 
their bodies cast God wot where, by the 
cruel ambition of their unnatural uncle 
and his despiteous tormentors. Which 
things on every part well pondered, God 
never gave this world a more notable ex- 
ample, neither in what unsurety standeth 
this worldly weal, or what mischief work- 
eth the proud enterprize of an high heart ; 



or finally, what wretched end ensueth such 
despiteous cruelty. 

For first, to begin with the ministers, 
Miles Forrest, at S. Martin's, piecemeal 
rotted away. Dighton indeed yet walk- 
eth on alive, in good possibility to be 
hanged ere he die. But sir James Tirrell 
died at the Tower Hill, beheaded for 
treason. King Richard himself, slain in 
the field, hacked and hewed of his ene- 
mies' hands, harried on horseback dead, 
his hair in despite torn and tugged like a 
cur dog ; and the mischief that he took, 
within less than three years of the mis- 
chief that he did ; and yet all (in the 
mean time) spent in much pain and trou- 
ble outward, much fear, anguish and sor- 
row within. For I have heard by credible 
report, of such as were secret with his 
chamberlain, that after this abominable 
deed done, he never had a quiet mind ; 
than the which there can be no greater 
torment. For a guilty conscience in- 
wardly accusing and bearing witness 

against an offender, is such a plague and 
punishment, as hell itself (with all the 
fiends therein) cannot afford one of greater 
horror and affliction; the poet implying 
no less in this tristichon — 

Poena autem vehemens, ac multo ssevior illis, 
Quas et Cceditius gravis invenit et Rhadamanthus, 
Nocte dieque suum gestarc in pectore testem. 

He never thought himself sure. Where 
he went abroad, his eyes whirled about, 
his body privily fenced, his hand ever 
upon his dagger, his countenance and 
manner like one always ready to strike 
again ; he took ill rest at nights, lay long 
waking and musing, sore wearied with 
care and watch, rather slumbered than 
slept, troubled with fearful dreams, sud- 
denly sometimes start up, leapt out of his 
bed and ran about the chamber ; so was 
his restless heart continually tossed and 
tumbled with the tedious impression and 
stormy remembrance of his abominable 
deed. Sir Thomas More. 


of whose life little or nothing is known with certainty, is said to have been born at 
Bosely in Cheshire about the year 1526, to have been steward to a gentleman in War- 
wickshire, and to have died about the year 1580. 

By the advice of Reginald Wolfe, printer to Queen Elizabeth, and assisted by other 
writers, he wrote Chronicles of England, from the days of Noah to the year 1577; 
of Ireland, from a little while before the flood, when it is said to have been discovered 
by a niece of Noah, down to the year 1509 ; and of Scotland, from the age of Moses 
to the year 1571 : all these chronicles were continued by others to the year 1586. 
They are compiled chiefly from earlier chronicles, are written in an artless manner, 
and are very amusing. The latter part of the chronicles of England, which treats of 
the times near to and in which Holinshed lived, contains much curious information as 
to the manners and customs of our forefathers. 


But now to make an end of the. life, as 
well as of the reign, of king Edward II., 
I find that, after he was deposed of his 
kingly honour and title, he remained for 
a time at Killingworth, in custody of the 
earl of Leicester. But within a while 
the queen was informed by the bishop of 
Hereford (whose hatred towards him had 

no end), that the earl of Leicester favoured 
her husband too much, and more than 
stood with the surety of her son's state, 
whereupon he was appointed to the keep- 
ing of two other lords, Thomas Berkley 
and John Matrevers, who, receiving him 
of the earl of Leicester the 3rd of April, 
conveyed him from Killingworth unto the 
castle of Berkley, situate not far off from 
the river of Severne, almost the midway 
between Gloucester and Bristow. 

But for so much as the lord Berkley 



used him more courteously than his ad- 
versaries wished him to do, he was dis- 
charged of that office, and sir Thomas 
Gourney appointed in his stead, who, to- 
gether with the lord Matrevers, conveyed 
him secretly (for fear lest he should be 
taken from them by force) from one strong 
place to another, as to the castle of Corfe, 
and such like, still removing with him 
in the night season, till at length they 
thought it should not be known whither 
they had conveyed him. And so at length 
they brought him back again in secret 
manner unto the castle of Berkley, where, 
whilst he remained (as some write), the 
queen would send unto him courteous and 
loving letters, with apparel and other such 
things, but she would not once come near 
to visit him, bearing him in hand that she 
durst not, for fear of the people's dis- 
pleasure, who hated him so extremely. 
Howbeit, she with the rest of her con- 
federates had (no doubt) laid the plot of 
their devise for his dispatch, though by 
painted words she pretended a kind of 
remorse to him in this his distress, and 
would seem to be faultless in the sight of 
the world ; for 

Proditor illudit verbis dum verbera cu Jit. 

But as he thus continued in prison, 
elosely kept, so that none of his friends 
might have access unto him, as in such 
cases it often happeneth, when men be in 
misery, some will ever pity their state, 
there w r ere divers of the nobility (of whorn 
the earl of Kent was chief) began to de- 
vise means, by secret conference had to- 
gether, how they might restore him to 
liberty, discommending greatly both queen 
Isabell and such others as were appointed 
governors to the young king, for his 
father's strict imprisonment. The queen 
and other the governors understanding 
this conspiracy of the earl of Kent, and 
of his brother, durst not yet, in that new 7 
and green world, go about to punish it, 
but rather thought good to take away 
from them the occasion of accomplishing 
their purpose. And hereupon the queen 
and the bishop of Hei-eford w r rote sharp 
letters unto his keepers, blaming them 
greatly, for that they dealt so gently with 
him, and kept him no stricter, but suf- 
fered him to have such liberty, that he 
advertized some of his friends abroad how 
and in what manner he was used ; and 
withal the bishop of Hereford, under a 
sophistical form of words, signified to 
them by his letters, that they should 

dispatch him out of the way, the tenor 
whereof wrapt in obscurity ran thus : — 

Edwardum occidere nolite timere bonum est ; 

To kill Edward will not to fear it is good. 

Which riddle or doubtful kind of speech, 
as it might be taken in two contrary senses, 
only by placing the point in orthography 
called comma, they construed in the worse 
sense, putting the comma after timere ; 
and so presuming of this commandment 
as they took it from the bishop, they 
lodged the miserable prisoner in a cham- 
ber over a foul filthy dungeon, full of dead 
carrion, trusting so to make an end of 
him with the abominable stench thereof; 
but he bearing it out strongly, as a man 
of a tough nature, continued still in life, 
so as it seemed he was very like to escape 
that danger, as he had by purging either 
up or down avoided the force of such 
poison as had been ministered to him 
sundry times before, of purpose so to rid 

Whereupon, when they saw that such 
practices would not serve their turn, they 
came suddenly one night into the chamber 
where he lay in bed fast asleep, and with 
heavy feather beds or a table (as some 
w r rite) being cast upon him, they kept 
him down and thrust into his body an 
hot spit, or (as others have) a plumber's 
instrument of iron made very hot, the 
which passing into his entrails, and being 
rolled to and fro, burnt the same, but so 
as no appearance of any w T ound or hurt 
outwardly might be once perceived. His 
cry did move many within the castle and 
town of Berkley to compassion, plainly 
hearing him utter a wailful noise, as the 
tormentors were about to murder him, so 
that divers being awakened therewith (as 
they themselves confessed), prayed heartily 
to God to receive his soul, when they un- 
derstood by his cry what the matter 

The queen, the bishop, and others, that 
their tyranny might be hid, outlawed and 
banished the lord Matrevers and Thomas 
Gourney, who flying unto Marcels, three 
years after being known, taken and 
brought toward England, was beheaded 
on the sea, lest he should accuse the chief 
doers, as the bishop and other. John 
Matrevers, repenting himself, lay long 
hidden in Germany, and in the end died 
penitently. Thus w T as king Edward mur- 
dered, in the year 1327, on the 22nd of 
September. The fame went that, by this 
Edward II., after his death manv miracles 



were wrought. So that the like opinion 
of him was conceived as before had been 
of earl Thomas of Lancaster, namely, 
amongst the common people. He was 
known to be of a good and courteous 
nature, though not of most pregnant wit. 

And albeit in his youth he fell into 
certain light crimes ; and after, by the 
company and counsel of evil men, was 
induced unto more heinous vices, yet was 
it thought that he purged the same by 
repentance, and patiently suffered many 
reproofs, and finally death itself (as before 
ye have heard) after a most cruel manner. 
He had surely good cause to repent his 
former trade of living, for by his indis- 
creet and wanton misgovernance, there 
were headed and put to death during 
his reign (by judgment of law) to the 
number of 28 barons and knights, over 
and beside such as were slain in Scotland 
by his unfortunate conduct. 

All these mischiefs and many more 
happened not only to him but also to the 
whole state of the realm, in that he 
wanted judgment and prudent discretion 
to make choice of sage and discreet coun- 

sellors, receiving those into his favour 
that abused the same to their private gain 
and advantage, not respecting the ad- 
vancement of the commonwealth, so they 
themselves might attain to riches and 
honour, for which they only sought, in- 
somuch that by their covetous rapine, 
spoil and immoderate ambition, the hearts 
of the common people and nobility were 
quite estranged from the dutiful love and 
obedience which they ought to have shown 
to their sovereign, going about by force to 
wrest him to follow their wills, and to 
seek the destruction of them whom he 
commonly favoured, wherein surely they 
were worthy of blame, and to taste (as 
many of them did) the deserved punish- 
ment for their disobedient and disloyal 
demeanors. For it was not the way 
which they took to help the disfigured 
state of the commonwealth, but rather 
the ready means to overthrow all, as if 
God's goodness had not been the greater 
it must needs have come to pass, as to 
those that shall well consider the pitiful 
tragedy of this king's time it may well 
appear. Raphael Holinshed. 


the author of the History of the Turks, was born in Northamptonshire about 1544, 
and educated at Oxford, where he was admitted about 1560. He was master of the 
Free Grammar School at Sandwich in Kent, and died and was buried there in 1610. 

The History of the Turks occupied him for twelve years, and was first printed in 
1610, the year of his death. Dr. Johnson, comparing Knolles with other English 
historians, after expressly naming Sir Walter Raleigh and Clarendon, says, " None of 
our writers can in my opinion justly contest the superiority of Knolles, who in his 
History of the Turks has displayed all the excellencies that narration can admit. His 
style, though somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is 
pure, nervous, elevated and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so artfully 
arranged and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates the knowledge of the next. 
Whenever a new personage is introduced, the reader is prepared by his character for 
his actions ; when a nation is first attacked or city besieged, he is made acquainted 
with its history or situation ; so that a great part of the world is brought into view. 
The descriptions of the author are without minuteness, and the digressions without 
ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven into the contexture of his prin- 
cipal story, that they cannot be disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. 
There is nothing turgid in his dignity nor superfluous in his copiousness. His ora- 
tions only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been pronounced on 
remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid." 

The best continuation of Knolles' history is by Sir Paul Rycaut. 




The year following, which was the year 
1553, Solyman raised a great army, giving 
it out, that the Persians had with greater 
power than before invaded Syria, and 
therefore he, for the love of his country 
and defence of his empire, was deter- 
mined to go thither with his army and in 
person himself to repress the attempts of 
his enemies. Wherefore the army being 
assembled, and all things necessary or- 
derly provided, he commanded to set for- 
ward, and in few days after followed 
himself, who coming at length into Syria, 
presently by trusty messengers com- 
manded Mustapha to come unto him at 
Aleppo, for there he lay encamped. And 
yet for all these shadows, the matter was 
not so closely by Solyman conveyed (al- 
though he was exceeding careful thereof), 
but that his mortal and deadly hatred 
against his son was perceived by the 
Bassas and other great men about him ; 
insomuch that Achmat Bassa, by a secret 
and trusty messenger, gave him warning 
thereof, that so he might in time the 
better provide for the safeguard of his 
life. Neither could Mustapha himself but 
marvel that his aged father, without any 
apparent reason, should come so far with 
so great an army ; yet trusting to his own 
innocency, though wonderfully troubled 
and perplexed in mind, he resolved (al- 
though it were with the extreme danger 
of his life) to obey and yield to his 
father's command ; for he thought it more 
commendable atid honourable to incur 
the danger of death, than, living, to fall 
into the foul suspicion of disloyalty. In 
so great a perplexity of mind, after he 
had with himself much discoursed to 
and fro what course he were best to 
take, at length he boldly and resolutely 
asked the doctor, whom he had always 
with him in his court, whether the em- 
pire of the world or a blessed life were of 
man to be more desired ? To whom the 
doctor frankly answered, that the empire 
of the world, to him that would enter 
into the due consideration thereof, brought 
with it no felicity more than a vain show 
and outer appearance of good, nothing 
being more frail or uncertain than worldly 
honour, bringing with it fear, vexation 
of mind, tribulation, suspicion, murder, 
wrong, wickedness, spoil, ruin, and cap- 

tivity, with infinite mischiefs of like na- 
ture, not to be desired of him that would 
attain to true felicity, by which means 
the blessed life was to be lost and not 
gained. But they unto whom God had 
given the grace rightly to consider and 
weigh the fragility and shortness of this 
our estate (which the common sort deem- 
eth to be the only life), and to strive 
against the vanities of this world, and to 
embrace and follow an upright kind of 
life, had undoubtedly a place assigned for 
them in heaven, and prepared by the great 
God, where they should at length enjoy 
life and bliss eternal. This answer of the 
great doctor wonderfully satisfied the 
troubled mind of the young prince, fore- 
seeing as it were the approach of his own 
end, and so staying not any longer dis- 
course, forthwith set forwards towards 
his father, and making great haste, came 
at length to his father's camp, and not 
far off pitched his tents in the open field. 
But this his so hasty coming the more in- 
creased the suspicion in the mind of his 
wicked father ; neither spared Rustan in 
the meantime with his crafty and subtle 
devices to augment the same ; for by a 
sign given, he caused the Janizaries and 
chief men in the army to go, as if it had 
been for honour's sake, to meet Mus- 
tapha ; which they all without delay pre- 
sently did at his command, and so all to- 
gether set forward. In the meantime he, 
the most crafty varlet, with troubled coun- 
tenance (for he could notably dissemble), 
as a man half dismayed, came in haste 
into Solyman's pavilion, and falsely told 
him, that the Janizaries and almost all 
the best soldiers of the army were of 
themselves without leave gone to meet 
Mustapha, and that he feared what would 
ensue thereof; which news so troubled 
the old tyrant, that he became pale for 
fear, and going out of his tent and find- 
ing them gone, easily believed all to be 
true that the false Bassa had told him. 
Neither wanted Mustapha strange warn- 
ing of his end so near at hand, for the 
third day before his setting forwards to- 
ward his father, falling asleep in the even- 
ing, he thought he saw his prophet Ma- 
homet in bright apparel to take him by 
the hand and lead him into a most plea- 
sant place, beautified with most glorious 
and stately palaces, and most delicate and 
pleasant gardens ; and pointing to every- 
thing with his finger, to say thus unto 
him, Here rest they for ever, who in this 
world have led an upright and goodly life, 



folloiving virtue and detesting vice ; and 
after that turning his face to the other 
side, to have showed him two great and 
swift rivers, whereof the one hoiled with 
water blacker than pitch, and iu them 
appeared (as he thought) numbers of men 
wallowing and tumbling, some up, some 
down, crying horribly for mercy; and 
there (said he) are punished all such as 
in this frail life have been malicious 
workers of iniquity ; the chief of whom 
(as he said) were emperors, kings, princes, 
and other great men of the world. Mus- 
tapha awaking, and troubled with this 
melancholy dream, called unto him his 
doctor, and having told him all the mat- 
ter, asked him what the same might sig- 
nify ? who, standing a great while in a 
muse (for the Mahometans are exceed- 
ing superstitious, attributing much to 
dreams), full of sorrow and grief, at length 
answered, that this vision (for so it pleased 
him to term it) was undoubtedly to be 
feared, as presaging unto him the extreme 
peril of his life, and therefore requested 
him to have great care both of his life 
and honour. But Mustapha, as he was of 
a notable spirit and courage, regarding no- 
thing that answer, stoutly replied, " What, 
shall I suffer myself to be terrified and 
overcome with childish and vain fear ? 
Why rather haste I not courageously and 
resolutely to my father ? And so much 
the more boldly, because I know assuredly 
I have always (as reason was) reverenced 
his majesty, that against his will I never 
turned mine eyes or foot against his most 
royal seat, much less affected his empire, 
except the most high God had called him 
to a better life ; neither then without the 
general good liking and choice of the 
whole army, that so I might at length 
without murder, without blood, without 
tyranny, well and justly reign, and in love 
and peace inviolate live with my brethren ; 
for I have set down with myself, and 
chosen, if it be my father's pleasure so, 
rather to die in his obedience, than, reign- 
ing many years, to be reputed of all men, 
especially my competitors, a rebel or 
traitor." Having thus said, he came into 
his father's camp, and pitching his tents 
(as we have before said), suited himself 
all in white in token of his innocency, 
and writing certain letters (which the 
Turks, when they are about to go to any 
place of danger, use to write and always 
to carry with them, for they are wonderful 
foolish in their superstition), and putting 
them in his bosom, attended upon with a 

few of his most trusty followers, came 
with great reverence towards the tent of 
his father, fully resolving to have kissed 
his hand, as their usual manner is. But 
when he was come to the entoance of the 
tent, remembering that he had yet his 
dagger girt to him, he entered not in 
until he had put it off, because he would 
not come into his father's sight with any 
weapon, if happily so he might clear him- 
self of his father's needless suspicion. So 
when he was come into the more inward 
rooms of the tent, he was, with such 
honour as belonged to his state, cheer- 
fully received by his father's eunuchs. 
But seeing nothing else provided but one 
seat whereon to sit himself alone, he, per- 
plexed in mind, stood still a while musing ; 
at length asked where the emperor his 
father was ? Whereunto they answered, 
that he should by and by see him ; and 
with that, casting his eye aside, he saw 
seven mutes (these are strong men bereft 
of their speech, whom the Turkish tyrants 
have always in readiness, the more secretly 
to execute their bloody butchery) coming 
from the other side of the tent towards 
him; at whose sight, strucken with a 
sudden terror, said no more but " Lo, my 
death ;" and with that, arising, was about 
to have fled, but in vain, for he was caught 
hold on by the eunuchs and mutes, and 
by force drawn to the place appointed for 
his death ; where, without further stay, 
the mutes cast a bow-string about his 
neck, he, poor wretch, still striving, and 
requesting that he might speak but two 
words to his father before he died. All 
which the murtherer (for no addition is 
sufficient significally to express his un- 
natural villany) both heard and saw by a 
traverse from the other side of the tent, 
but was so far from being moved with com- 
passion, that, thinking it long till he were 
dispatched, with a most terrible and cruel 
voice he rated the villains inured to blood, 
saying, " Will you never dispatch that I 
bid you? Will you never make an end 
of this traitor, for whom I have not rested 
one night these ten years in quiet?" 
Which horrible commanding speeches, yet 
thundering in their ears, those butcherly 
mutes threw the poor innocent prince 
upon the ground, and with the help of 
the eunuchs forcibly drawing the knotted 
bow-string both ways, by the command- 
ment of a most wicked father, strangled 

This unnatural and strange murder com- 
mitted, he presently commanded the bassa 



of Amasia, Mustapha's lieutenant, to be 
apprehended, and his head, in his own 
presence, to be struck off. Which done, 
he sent for Tzihanger the Crooked, yet 
ignorant of all that was happened ; and in 
sporting wise, as if he had dor> a a thing 
worth commendation, bid him go meet 
his brother Mustapha ; which thing Tzi- 
hanger with a merry and cheerful coun- 
tenance hasted to do, as one glad of his 
brother's coming. But as soon as he 
came unto the place where he saw his 
brother lying dead upon the ground 
strangled, it is not to be spoken how he 
was in mind tormented. He was scarcely 
come to the place where this detestable 
murther was committed, when his father 
sent unto him certain of his servants to 
offer unto him all Mustapha's treasure, 
horses, sen-ants, jewels, tents, and withal, 
the government of the province of Ama- 
sia ; but Tzihanger, filled with extreme 
heaviness for the unmerciful death of his 
well-beloved brother, spake unto them in 
this sort : " A wicked and an ungodly 
Cain, traitor (I may not say father), take 
thou now the treasures, the horses, the 
servants, the jewels, and the province of 

Mustapha. How came it into thy wicked, 
cruel, and savage breast, so ungraciously 
and contrary to all humanity, I will not 
say the reverence of thine own blood, to 
kill thy worthy, warlike, and noble son, 
the Mirror of Courtesie, and prince of 
greatest hope, the like of whom the Otho- 
man family never yet had, nor never shall? 
I will therefore myself provide that thou, 
nor none for thee shall ever hereafter in 
such sort shamefully triumph over a poor 
crooked wretch." And having thus much 
said, stabbed himself with his own dag- 
ger into the body, whereof he in short 
time died; which, so soon as it came to 
the old Tiger's ears, it is hard to say how 
much he grieved. His dead body was by 
his father's commandment carried from 
Aleppo in Syria to Constantinople, and 
afterwards honourably buried on the other 
side of the Haven at Pera. For all this 
bloody tragedy, his covetous mind was not 
so troubled, but that he could forthwith 
command all Mustapha's treasures and 
riches to be brought to Ms tent ; which 
his soldiers, in hope to have the same 
given among them for a prey, willingly 
hasted to perform. Richard Knolles. 


was born on the 18th of February 1608, at Dinton in Wiltshire, and was sent, at 
the age of thirteen, to Magdalen Hall, Oxford. In 1625 he became a law-student at 
the Middle Temple, and afterwards practised as a barrister, and w r as patronised by 
archbishop Laud. In April 1640 he was elected member of parliament for Wootton 
Basset, and during that short parliament which lasted from the 13th of April to the 
5th of May, he opposed the Court, and was a zealous advocate for the redress of 
grievances. In the Long Parliament, which met in November 1640, he was member 
for Saltash, and for some time continued to act with the popular party. It is cer- 
tain that he did not vote against the attainder of lord Strafford, and probable that he 
voted for it, because, on the 27th of April 1641, a week after the bill of attainder 
had passed through the House of Commons, he carried up a message to the Lords, 
that the Commons had received information which made them fear that lord Straf- 
ford had a design to escape, and desired that he might be kept a close prisoner. He 
first differed with his party on the bill for taking away the right of the bishops to sit 
in the House of Lords, which he opposed ; and the king, before his journey to Scot- 
land, in August 1641, having desired to thank him for his affection to the church, 
they had a secret interview and discoursed on the means of defeating the threatened 
measure. Immediately before the king's return from Scotland, Hyde came to an 
open quarrel with Hampden and his party, in the violent debate on the 22nd of No- 
vember, when the Commons voted a remonstrance to the king ; and in the early part 



of the following year he saw Charles often in secret, informed him, from time to 
time, of what was done in the House of Commons, and prepared the royal answers 
to the various addresses that were voted. This secret intercourse was at length sus- 
pected, and Hyde's arrest was at hand, when he fled to the king at York, in May 

In 1644, after the battle of Naseby, he was appointed one of a council to take 
charge of the prince of Wales, whom he conducted to Jersey. In 1648 the prince 
quitted Jersey, and Hyde remaining there, began to write his History of the Rebel- 
lion. In the same year, shortly before the king's execution, Hyde also left Jersey, 
and from that time until the Restoration in 1660, followed the fortunes of Charles II. 
abroad. At the Restoration he was made lord chancellor, raised to the peerage by 
the title of baron Hyde, and elected chancellor of the University of Oxford ; and in 
1661 he was created earl of Clarendon. On the 3rd of September 1660, his daughter 
Anne was secretly married to the duke of York, afterwards James II., and by this 
marriage two of lord Clarendon's grand-children, Mary and Anne, became successively 
queens of England. In 1662 he advised the sale of Dunkirk to Louis XIV. ; and in 
1667, when he had lost the king's favour, was impeached of treason for that act 
among others, and retired to France, where he finished his History of the Rebellion, 
and died at Rouen on the 9th of December 1674. 

Lord Clarendon's History begins with a review of the state of England from 1625, 
when Charles I. ascended the throne, until 1633, and proceeds to detail the great 
events which followed down to the 29th of May 1660, when Charles II. entered 
London. This history is of the kind called memoirs, the authors of which do not 
relate events according to their relative importance, but dwell wholly, or mostly, 
upon those things in which they themselves were actors. Lord Clarendon is not an 
impartial historian — it was hardly possible that he should be — and he avows that he 
began to write lest the memory of the Royalists might lose the recompense due to 
their virtue, and not find a vindication in a better age. He is often inaccurate as to 
facts ; and although he has the honesty to admit faults on the king's side, and to 
allow some excuse for his enemies, yet he does this doubtfully, halting between two 
opinions, as if he feared to disparage the royal party. His style is involved, and he 
is sometimes tedious, but generally he writes with the earnest eloquence of a man 
feeling strongly what he tells, and in portraying characters he has no equal. 


He was a gentleman of a good family in 
Buckinghamshire, and born to a fair for- 
tune, and of a most civil and affable de- 
portment. In his entrance into the world 
he indulged to himself all the license in 
sports and exercises, and company, which 
were used by men of the most jolly con- 
versation. Afterwards he retired to a 
more reserved and melancholy society, 
yet preserving his own natural cheerful- 
ness and vivacity, and above all, a flowing 
courtesy to all men ; though they who 
conversed nearly with him, found him 
growing into a dislike of the ecclesiastical 
government of the church, yet most be- 
lieved it rather a dislike of some church- 

men, and of some introducements of theirs, 
which he apprehended might disquiet the 
public peace. He was rather of reputa- 
tion in his own country than of public 
discourse, or fame in the kingdom, before 
the business of ship-money ; but then he 
grew the argument of all tongues, even- 
man inquiring who and what he was, that 
durst, at his own charge, support the li- 
berty and property of the kingdom, and 
rescue his country, as he thought, from 
being made a prey to the court. His car- 
riage throughout this agitation was with 
that rare temper and modesty, that they 
who watched him narrowly to find some 
advantage against his person, to make him 
less resolute in his cause, were compelled 
to give him a just testimony. And the 
judgment that was given against him in- 



finitely more advanced him, than the ser- 
vice for which it was given. When this 
parliament begun (being returned knight 
of the shire for the county where he lived), 
the eyes of all men were fixed upon him 
as their Patrice Pater, and the pilot that 
must steer the vessel through the tempests 
and rocks which threatened it. And I 
am persuaded his power and interest, at 
that time, was greater to do good or hurt 
than any man's in the kingdom, or than 
any man of his rank bath had in any time; 
for his reputation of honesty was univer- 
sal, and his affections seemed so publicly 
guided, that no corrupt or private ends 
could bias them. 

He was of that rare affability and tem- 
per in debate, and of that seeming humi- 
lity and submission of judgment, as if he 
brought no opinion of his own with him, 
but a desire of information and instruc- 
tion ; yet he had so subtle a way of in- 
terrogating, and, under the notion of 
doubts, insinuating his objections, that be 
infused his own opinions into tbose from 
whom he pretended to learn and receive 
them. And even with them wbo were 
able to preserve themselves from his in- 
fusions, and discerned those opinions to 
be fixed in him, with which they could 
not comply, he always left the character 
of an ingenious and conscientious person. 
He was indeed a very wise man and of 
great parts, and possessed with the most 
absolute spirit of popularity, and the most 
absolute faculties to govern the people, of 
any man I ever knew. For the first year 
of the parliament he seemed rather to mo- 
derate and soften the violent and distem- 
pered humours than to inflame them. But 
wise and dispassioned men plainly dis- 
cerned that that moderation proceeded 
from prudence, and observation that the 
season was not ripe, rather than that he 
approved of the moderation ; and that he 
begot many opinions and motions, the 
education whereof he committed to other 
men ; so far disguising his own designs, 
that he seemed seldom to wish more than 
was concluded ; and in many gross con- 
clusions which would hereafter contribute 
to designs not yet set on foot, when he 
found them sufficiently backed by majo- 
rity of voices, he would withdraw himself 
before the question, that he might seem 
not to consent to so much visible unrea- 
sonableness, which produced as great a 
doubt in some as it did approbation in 
others, of his integrity. What combi- 
nation soever had been originally with the 

Scots for the invasion of England, and 
what farther was entered into afterwards 
in favour of them, and to advance any 
alteration of the government in parlia- 
ment, no man doubts was at least with 
the privity of this gentleman. 

After he was, among those members, 
accused by the king of high treason, he 
was much altered ; his nature and car- 
riage seeming much fiercer than it did be- 
fore. And without question, when he 
first drew his sword, he threw away the 
scabbard ; for he passionately opposed the 
overture made by the king for a treaty 
from Nottingham, and as eminently all 
expedients that might have produced any 
accommodations in this that was at Ox- 
ford; and was principally relied on, to 
prevent any infusions which might be 
made into the earl of Essex towards peace, 
or to render them ineffectual if they were 
made ; and was indeed much more relied 
on by that party than the General himself. 
In the first entrance into the troubles, he 
undertook the command of a regiment of 
foot, and performed the duty of a colonel, 
upon all occasions, most punctually. He 
was very temperate in diet, and a supreme 
governor over all his passions and affec- 
tions, and had thereby a great power over 
other men's. He was of an industiy and 
vigilance not to be tired out, or wearied 
by the most laborious ; and of parts not 
to be imposed upon by the most subtle or 
sharp ; and of a personal courage equal to 
his best parts ; so that he was an enemy 
not to be wished wherever he might have 
been made a friend ; and as much to be 
apprehended where he was so, as any man 
could deserve to be; and therefore his 
death was no less pleasing to the one 
party than it was condoled in the other. 
Lord Clarendon. 


If the celebrating the memory of emi- 
nent and extraordinary persons, and trans- 
mitting their great virtues, for the imita- 
tion of posterity, be one of the principal 
ends and duties of history, it will not be 
thought impertinent in this place to re- 
member a loss which no time will suffer 
to be forgotten, and no success or good 
fortune could repair. In this unhappy 
battle (of Newbury) was slain the lord 
viscount Falkland ; a person of such pro- 



digious parts of learning and knowledge, 
of that inimitable sweetness and delight 
in conversation, of so flowing and obliging 
a humanity and goodness to mankind, and 
of that primitive simplicity and integrity 
of life, that if there were no other brand 
upon this odious and accursed civil war 
than that single loss, it must be most in- 
famous and execrable to all posterity. 

Turpe mori, post te, solo non posse dolore. 

Before this parliament his condition of 
life was so happy that it was hardly capa- 
ble of improvement. Before he came to 
be twenty years of age, he was master of 
a noble fortune, which descended to him 
by the gift of a grandfather, without pass- 
ing through his father or mother, who 
were then both alive, and not well enough 
contented to find themselves passed by 
in the descent. His education for some 
years had been in Ireland, where his father 
was lord deputy ; so that when he return- 
ed into England to the possession of his 
fortune, he was unentangled with any ac- 
quaintance or friends which usually grow 
up by the custom of conversation ; and 
therefore was to make a pure election of 
his company, which he chose by other 
rules than were prescribed to the young 
nobility of that time. And it cannot be 
denied, though he admitted some few to 
his friendship for the agreeableness of 
their natures and their undoubted affec- 
tion to him, that his familiarity and friend- 
ship, for the most part, was with men of 
the most eminent and sublime parts, and 
of untouched reputation in point of inte- 
grity; and such men had a title to his 

He was a great cherisher of wit and 
fancy, and good parts in any man ; and if 
he found them clouded with poverty or 
want, a most liberal and bountiful patron 
towards them, even above his fortune ; of 
which, in those administrations, he was 
such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted 
with it to such uses, and if there had been 
the least of vice in his expense, he might 
have been thought too prodigal. He was 
constant and pertinacious in whatsoever 
he resolved to do, and not to be wearied 
by any pains that were necessary to that 
end. And therefore having once resolved 
not to see London, which he loved above 
all places, till he had perfectly learned the 
Greek tongue, he went to his own house 
in the country, and pursued it with that 
indefatigable industry, that it will not be 
believed in how short a time he was master 

of it, and accurately read all the Greek 

In this time, his house being within 
little more than ten miles of Oxford, he 
contracted familiarity and friendship with 
the most polite and accurate men of that 
university, who found such an immense- 
ness of wit and such a solidity of judg- 
ment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in 
by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast 
knowledge, that he was not ignorant in 
anything, yet such an excessive humility, 
as if he had known nothing, that they fre- 
quently resorted and dwelt with him, as 
in a college situated in a purer air; so 
that his house was a university in a less 
volume ; whither they came not so much 
for repose as study ; and to examine and 
refine those grosser propositions, which 
laziness and consent made current in vul- 
gar conversation. 

Many attempts were made upon him by 
the instigation of his mother (who w T as a 
lady of another persuasion in religion and 
of a most masculine understanding, al- 
layed with the passion and infirmities of 
her own sex) to pervert him in his piety 
to the church of England, and to reconcile 
him to that of Rome, which they prose- 
cuted with the more confidence, because 
he declined no opportunity or occasion of 
conference with those of that religion, 
whether priests or laics ; having diligently 
studied the controversies, and exactly read 
all, or the choicest of the Greek and Latin 
fathers, and having a memory so stupen- 
dous, that he remembered on all occa- 
sions whatsoever he read. And he was 
so great an enemy to that passion and un- 
charitableness, which he saw produced by 
difference of opinion in matters of reli- 
gion, that in all those disputations with 
priests and others of the Roman church, 
he affected to manifest all possible civility 
to their persons, and estimation of their 
parts, which made them retain still some 
hope of his reduction, even when they had 
given over offering farther reasons to him 
to that purpose. But this charity towards 
them was much lessened, and any corre- 
spondence with them quite declined, when, 
by sinister arts, they had corrupted his 
two younger brothers, being both children, 
and stolen them from his house, and trans- 
ported them beyond seas, and perverted 
his sisters : upon which occasion he writ 
two large discourses against the principal 
positions of that religion, with that sharp- 
ness of style and full weight of reason that 
the church is deprived of great jewels in 



the concealment of them, and that they 
are not published to the world. 

He was superior to all those passions 
and affections which attend vulgar minds, 
and was guilty of no other ambition than 
of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover 
of all good men ; and that made him too 
much a contemner of those arts which 
must be indulged in the transactions of 
human affairs. In the last short parlia- 
ment he was a burgess in the House of 
Commons, and from the debates which 
were there managed with all imaginable 
gravity and sobriety, he contracted such a 
reverence to parliaments that he thought 
it really impossible they could ever pro- 
duce mischief or inconvenience to the 
kingdom, or that the kingdom could be 
tolerably happy in the intermission of 
them. And from the unhappy and un- 
seasonable dissolution of that convention, 
he harboured, it may be, some jealousy 
and prejudice to the court, towards which 
he was not before immoderately inclined ; 
his father having wasted a full fortune 
there, in those offices and employments 
by which other men use to obtain a greater. 
He was chosen again this parliament to 
serve in the same place, and in the begin- 
ning of it declared himself very sharply 
and severely against those exorbitances 
which had been most grievous to the state; 
for he was so rigid an observer of esta- 
blished laws and rules, that he could not 
endure the least breach or deviation from 
them ; and thought no mischief so into- 
lerable as the presumption of ministers of 
state to break positive rules for reasons 
of state ; or judges to transgress known 
laws upon the title of conveniency or ne- 
cessity, which made him so severe against 
the earl of Strafford and the lord Finch, 
contrary to his natural gentleness and 
temper ; insomuch as they who did not 
know his composition to be as free from 
revenge as it was from pride, thought that 
the sharpness to the former might pro- 
ceed from the memory of some unkind- 
nesses, not without a mixture of injustice 
from him towards his father. But with- 
out doubt he was free from those temp- 
tations, and in both cases was only mis- 
led by the authority of those who, he be- 
lieved, understood the laws perfectly, of 
which himself was utterly ignorant ; and 
if the assumption, which was then scarce 
controverted, had been true, " that an en- 
deavour to overthrow the fundamental 
laws of the kingdom was treason," a strict 
understanding might make reasonable 

conclusions to satisfy his own judgment 
from the exorbitant parts of their several 

The great opinion he had of the up- 
rightness and integrity of those persons 
who appeared most active, especially of 
Mr. Hampden, kept him longer from sus- 
pecting any design against the peace of 
the kingdom, and though he differed from 
them commonly in conclusions, he be- 
lieved long their purposes were honest. 
When he grew better informed what was 
law, and discerned in them a desire to 
control that law by a vote of one or both 
houses, no man more opposed those at- 
tempts, and gave the adverse party more 
trouble by reason and argumentation ; in- 
somuch as he was, by degrees, looked 
upon as an advocate for the court, to 
which he contributed so little, that he de- 
clined those addresses, and even those ini 
vitations which he was obliged almost 
by civility to entertain. And he was so 
jealous of the least imagination that he 
should incline to preferment, that he af- 
fected even a moroseness to the court and 
to the courtiers, and left nothing undone 
which might prevent and divert the king's 
or queen's favour towards him, but the 
deserving it. For when the king sent for 
him once or twice to speak with him, and 
to give him thanks for his excellent com- 
portment in those councils, which his 
majesty graciously termed " doing him 
service," his answers were more negli- 
gent and less satisfactory than might be 
expected ; as if he cared only that his ac- 
tions should be just, not that they should 
be acceptable, and that his majesty should 
think they proceeded only from the im- 
pulsion of conscience, without any sym- 
pathy in his affections ; which, from a 
stoical and sullen nature, might not have 
been misinterpreted ; yet, from a person 
of so perfect a habit of generous and ob- 
sequious compliance with all good men, 
might very well have been interpreted by 
the king as more than an ordinary averse- 
ness to his service : so that he took more 
pains, and more forced his nature to ac- 
tions unagreeable and unpleasant to it, 
that he might not be thought to incline 
to the court, than most men have done 
to procure an office there. And if any- 
thing but not doing his duty could have 
kept him from receiving a testimony of 
the king's grace and trust at that time, 
he had not been called to his council ; not 
that he was in truth averse from receiving I 
public employment, for he had a great j 



devotion to the king's person, and had 
before used some small endeavour to be 
recommended to him for a foreign nego- 
tiation, and had once a desire to be sent 
ambassador into France ; but be abborred 
an imagination or doubt should sink into 
the thoughts of any man, that, in the dis- 
charge of his trust and duty in parlia- 
ment, he had any bias to the court, or 
that the king himself should apprehend 
that he looked for a reward for being 

For this reason, when he heard it first 
whispered "that the king had a pur- 
pose to make him a privy counsellor," 
for which there was, in the beginning, 
no other ground but because he was 
known sufficient (hand semper erratfama, 
aliquando et eligit), he resolved to decline 
it ; and at last suffered himself only to be 
overruled by the advice and persuasions 
of his friends, to submit to it. After- 
wards, when he found that the king in- 
tended to make him secretary of state, he 
was positive to refuse it ; declaring to his 
friends " that he was most unfit for it, and 
that he must either do that which would 
be great disquiet to his own nature, or 
leave that undone which was most neces- 
sary to be done by one that was honoured 
with that place ; for the most just and 
honest men did every day that which he 
could not give himself leave to do." And 
indeed he was so exact and strict an ob- 
server of justice and truth, that he be- 
lieved those necessary condescensions and 
applications to the weakness of other 
men, and those arts and insinuations 
which are necessary for discoveries and 
prevention of ill, would be in him a de- 
clension from his own rules of life : 
though he acknowledged them fit and 
absolutely necessary to be practised in 
those employments. He was, in truth, 
so precise in the practic principles he 
prescribed himself (to all others he was as 
indulgent), as if he had lived in Republica 
Platonis, non in face Romuli. 

Two reasons prevailed with him to re- 
ceive the seals, and but for those he had 
resolutely avoided them. The first, the 
consideration that his refusal might bring 
some blemish upon the king's affairs, and 
that men would have believed that he 
had refused so great an honour and trust, 
because he must have been with it obliged 
to do somewhat else not justifiable. And 
this he made matter of conscience, since 
he knew the king made choice of him 
before other men, especially because he 

thought him more honest than other 
men. The other was, lest he might be 
thought to avoid it out of fear to do an 
ungracious thing to the House of Com- 
mons, who were sorely troubled at the 
displacing sir Harry Vane, whom they 
looked upon as removed for having done 
them those offices they stood in need of ; 
and the disdain of so popular an incum- 
brance wrought upon him next to the 
other. For as he had a full appetite of 
fame by just and generous actions, so he 
had an equal contempt of it by any ser- 
vile expedients : and he so much the more 
consented to and approved the justice upon 
sir Harry Vane, in his own private judg- 
ment, by how much he surpassed most 
men in the religious observation of a 
trust, the violation whereof he would not 
admit of any excuse for. 

For these reasons he submitted to the 
king's command, and became his secre- 
tary, with as humble and devoted an ac- 
knowledgment of the greatness of the 
obligation as could be expressed, and as 
true a sense of it in bis heart. Yet two 
things he could never bring himself to 
whilst he continued in that office, that 
was to his death ; for which he was con- 
tented to be reproached as for omissions 
in a most necessary part of his place. 
The one, employing of spies or giving any 
countenance or entertainment to them. 
I do not mean such emissaries as with 
danger would venture to view the enemy's 
camp and bring intelligence of then* num- 
ber, or quartering, or any particulars that 
such an observation can comprehend ; but 
those who, by communication of guilt, or 
dissimulation of manners, wind them- 
selves into such trusts and secrets as 
enable them to make discoveries. The 
other, the liberty of opening letters, upon 
a suspicion that they might contain matter 
of dangerous consequence. For the first, 
he would say, " Such instruments must be 
void of all ingenuity and common ho- 
nesty, before they could be of use ; and 
afterwards they could never be fit to be 
credited : and that no single preservation 
could be worth so general a wound and 
corruption of human society, as the che- 
rishing such persons would carry with it." 
The last he thought " such a violation of 
the law of nature, that no qualification by 
office could justify him in the trespass ;" 
and though he was convinced by the ne- 
cessity and iniquity of the time that those 
advantages of information were not to be 
declined, and were necessarily to be prac- 



tised, he found means to put it off from 
himself; whilst he confessed he needed 
excuse and pardon for the omission ; so 
unwilling he was to resign any part of 
good nature to an obligation in his office. 

In all other particulars he filled his 
place with great sufficiency, being well 
versed in languages, to understand any 
that are used in business, and to make 
himself again understood. To speak of 
his integrity, and his high disdain of any 
bait that might seem to look towards 
Corruption, in tanto viro, injuria virtutum 
/merit. Some sharp expressions he used \ 
against the archbishop of Canterbury, and 
his concurring in the first bill to take 
away the votes of bishops in the House of 
Peers, gave occasion to some to believe, and 
opportunity to others to conclude and pub- , 
lish " that he was no friend to the church, 
and the established government of it ;" j 
and troubled his very friends much, who ' 
were more confident of the contrary than J 
prepared to answer the allegations. 

The truth is, he had unhappily con- j 
tracted some prejudice to the archbishop, 
and having observed his passion, when, it 
may be, multiplicity of business, or rather 
indisposition, had possessed him, did wish 
him less entangled and engaged in the 
business of the court or state : though I 
speak it knowingly, he had a singular esti- : 
mation and reverence of his great learn- 
ing and confessed integrity ; and really 
thought his own letting himself loose to 
those expressions which implied a dis- I 
esteem of the archbishop, or at least an 
acknowledgment of his infirmities, would 
enable him to shelter him from part of j 
the storm he saw raised for his destruc- j 
tion ; which he abominated with his soul, i 

The giving his consent to the first bill ; 
for the displacing the bishops did proceed 
from two grounds : the first, his not un- 
derstanding then the original of their j 
right and suffrage there ; the other, an j 
opinion that the combination against the j 
whole government of the church by bi- ; 
shops, was so violent and furious, that a ! 
less composition than the dispensing with 
their intermeddling in secular affairs, 
would not preserve the order. And he j 
was persuaded to this by the profession of 
many persons of honour, who declared j 

they did desire the one, and would not 
then press the other;" which, in that | 
particular, misled many men. But when j 
his observation and experience made him 
discern more of their intentions than he 
before suspected, with great frankness he | 

opposed the second bill that was preferred 
for that purpose ; and had, without scru- 
ple, the order itself in perfect reverence, 
and thought too great encouragement 
could not possibly be given to learning, 
nor too great rewards to learned men. ; 
He was never in the least degree swayed 
or moved by the objections which were 
made against that government in the 
church (holding them most ridiculous), J 
or affected to the other, which those men [ 
fancied to themselves. 

He had a courage of the most clear j 
and keen temper, and so far from fear, 
that he seemed not without some appe- 
tite of danger; and therefore upon any 
occasion of action he always engaged his 
person in those troops which he thought, 
by the forwardness of the commanders, 
to be most like to be furthest engaged ; 
and in all such encounters he had about 
him an extraordinary cheerfulness, with- 
out at all affecting the execution that 
usually attended them, in which he took 
no delight, but took pains to prevent it, 
where it was not by resistance made ne- 
cessary ; insomuch that at Edgehill, when 
the enemy was routed, he was like to 
have incurred great peril, by interposing 
to save those who had thrown away their 
arms, and against whom, it may be, others 
were more fierce for their having thrown 
them away : so that a man might think 
he came into the field chiefly out of cu- 
riosity to see the face of danger, and 
charity to prevent the shedding of blood. 
Yet in his natural inclination he acknow- 
ledged he was addicted to the profession 
of a soldier ; and shortly after he came to 
his fortune, before he was of age, he went 
into the Low Countries with a resolution 
of procuring command, and to give him- 
self up to it, from which he was diverted 
by the complete inactivity of that sum- 
mer: so he returned into England and 
shortly after entered upon that vehement 
course of study we mentioned before, till 
the first alarm from the north ; then again 
he made ready for the field, and though 
he received some repulse in the command 
of a troop of horse, of which he had a 
promise, he went a voluuteer with the 
earl of Essex. 

From the entrance into this unnatural 
war his natural cheerfulness and vivacity 
grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and I 
dejection of spirit stole upon him which j 
he had never been used to ; yet being one | 
of those who believed that one battle 
would end all differences, and that there i 

G 2 



would be so great a victory on one side 
that the other would be compelled to 
submit to any conditions from the victor, 
(which supposition and conclusion gene- 
rally sunk into the minds of most men, 
and prevented the looking after many 
advantages that might then have been 
laid hold of,) he resisted those indispo- 
sitions, et in luctu, helium inter remedia 
erat. But after the king's return from 
Brentford, and the furious resolution of 
the two houses not to admit any treaty 
for peace, those indispositions, which had 
before touched him, grew into a perfect 
habit of uncheerfulness ; and he, who had 
been so exactly easy and affable to all 
men, that his face and countenance was 
always present and vacant to his com- 
pany, and held any cloudiness and less 
pleasantness of the visage a kind of rude- 
ness or incivility, became on a sudden 
less communicable ; and thence very sad, 
pale, and exceedingly affected with the 
spleen. In his clothes and habit, which 
he had minded before always with more 
neatness, and industry, and expense, than 
is usual to so great a soul, he was not 
now only incurious, but too negligent ; 
and in his reception of suitors, and the 
necessary or casual addresses to his place, 
so quick, and sharp, and severe, that 
there wanted not some men (strangers to 
his nature and disposition) who believed 
him proud and imperious, from which no 
mortal man was ever more free. 

It is true, that as he was of a most 
incomparable gentleness, application, and 
even submission to good, and worthy, 
and entire men, so he was naturally (which 
could not but be more evident in his 
place, which objected him to another con- 
versation and intermixture, than his own 
election would have done) adversus malos 
injucundus ; and was so ill a dissembler 
of his dislike and disinclination to ill men, 
that it was not possible for such not to 
discern it. There was once, in the House 
of Commons, such a declared acceptation 
of the good service an eminent member 
had done to them, and, as they said, to 
the whole kingdom, that it was moved, 
he being present, "that the speaker might, 
in the name of the whole house, give him 
thanks ; and then, that every member 
might, as a testimony of his particular 
acknowledgment, stir or move his hat 
towards him;" the which (though not 
ordered) when very many did, the lord 
Falkland (who believed the service itself 
not to be of that moment, and that an 

honourable and generous person could 
not have stooped to it foranyrecompence), 
instead of moving his hat, stretched both 
his arms out, and clasped his hands to- 
gether upon the crown of his hat, and 
held it close down to his head, that all 
men might see how odious that flattery 
was to him, and the very approbation of 
the person, though at that time most 

When there was any overture or hope 
of peace, he would be more erect and 
vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to 
press anything which he thought might 
promote it ; and sitting among his friends, 
often, after a deep silence and frequent 
sighs, would, with a shrill and sad ac- 
cent, ingeminate the word peace, peace, 
and would passionately profess, " that the 
very agony of the war and the view of the 
calamities and desolation the kingdom 
did and must endure, took his sleep from 
him, and would shortly break his heart." 
This made some think, or pretend to 
think, " that he was so much enamoured 
on peace, that he would have been glad 
the king should have bought it at any 
price;" which was a most unreasonable 
calumny. As if a man, that was himself 
the most punctual and precise in every 
circumstance that might reflect upon con- 
science or honour, could have wished the 
king to have committed a trespass against 
either. And yet this senseless scandal 
made some impression upon him, or at 
least he used it for an excuse of the 
daringness of his spirit ; for at the leaguer 
before Gloucester, when his friend pas- 
sionately reprehended him for exposing 
his person unnecessarily to danger (for he 
delighted to visit the trenches and nearest 
approaches, and to discover what the 
enemy did), as being so much beside the 
duty of his place, that it might be under- 
stood rather to be against it, he would 
say merrily, "that his office could not 
take away the privilege of his age ; and 
that a secretary in war might be present 
at the greatest secret of danger ;" but 
withal alleged seriously, "that it con- 
cerned him to be more active in enter- 
prises of hazard than other men, that all 
might see that his impatiency for peace 
proceeded not from pusillanimity or fear 
to adventure his own person." 

In the morning before the battle, as 
always upon action, he was very cheerful, 
and put himself into the first rank of the 
lord Byron's regiment, then advancing 
upon the enemy, who had lined the 


hedges on both sides with musketeers ; 
from whence he was shot with a musket 
in the lower part of the belly, and in the 
instant falling from his horse, his body 
was not found till the next morning ; till 
when there was some hope he might have 
been a prisoner; though his nearest 
friends, who knew his temper, received 
small comfort from that imagination. 
Thus fell that incomparable young man, 

in the four and thirtieth year of his age, 
having so much dispatched the true bu- 
siness of life, that the eldest rarely attain 
to that immense knowledge, and the 
youngest enter not into the world with 
more innocency : whosoever leads such a 
life, needs be the less anxious upon how 
short warning it is taken from him. 

Lord Clarendon. 


was born at Edinburgh, on the 26th of April 1711, and was educated at the Uni- 
versity there. His family wished him to study the law, but he devoted himself to 
literature. In 1734 he was sent to Bristol to learn the arts of commerce which 
pleased him no better than those of law, so he went over to France with a view of 
prosecuting his studies in quiet, and, having but a very small fortune, lived abroad, 
with rigid frugality, for three years. In 1737 he came to London, and from that year 
until 1751 when he removed to Edinburgh, he was sometimes in England, but for 
the most part at his brother's country-house in Scotland, with the exception of the 
years 1746 and 1747, during which he was employed as military secretary to general 
St. Clair in an incursion on the coast of France, and upon an embassy to Vienna 
and Turin. These appointments, and great frugality made him reach a fortune which 
he called independence ; he was master of near a thousand pounds. 

In 1752 the Faculty of Advocates at Edinburgh chose him as their librarian, an 
office which gave him the command of a large library. He then formed the plan of 
writing the History of England, and began with the accession of the house of Stuart. 
When the book was published, it was, as he says, assailed by one cry of reproach, 
disapprobation, and even detestation, and then seemed to sink into oblivion. He 
completed his history, as we now have it, in the year 1761. In 1763 he accompanied 
lord Hertford on an embassy to Paris, was appointed secretary to the embassy, and 
loaded with civilities by the French people, being especially the darling of the ladies, 
who loved him, — not wisely — for his philosophy, in spite of his plain manners and 
broad unmeaning face. In 1767 he was under-secretary of state to marshal Conway, 
and finally retired to Edinburgh, in 1769, with a fortune of £1000 a-year. He died 
on the 25th of August 1776, and was buried on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh. 

Few men have caused so much evil by metaphysical speculation ; he adopted a 
false system of philosophy, from which, with great acuteness, he drew the most per- 
nicious conclusions, careless of the infinite mischief which might ensue, if his opinions 
happened to be false, as in fact they were. Yet he was an excellent man in his pri- 
vate character; frugal, but charitable and generous, gentle, but firm, and gay and good- 
humoured. He is considered to be one of the best models of style in our language. 
Gibbon confesses that when he read the English historians, having a hope that he 
might one day be enrolled among them, the careless inimitable beauties of Hume often 
forced him to close the volume with a mixed sensation of delight and despair. 
Hume's History is not to be implicitly relied on for accuracy or impartiality : he is 
often incorrect in fact, and prejudiced in opinion, especially where the house of Stuart 
is concerned. 




The enterprises finished hy this prince, 
and the projects which he formed and 
brought near to a conclusion, were more 
prudent, more regularly conducted, and 
more advantageous to the solid interests 
of his kingdom, than those which were 
undertaken in any reign, either of his 
ancestors or his successors. He restored 
authority to the government, disordered 
hy the weakness of his father ; he main- 
tained the laws against all the efforts of 
his turbulent barons ; he fully annexed to 
his crown the principality of Wales ; he 
took many wise and vigorous measures 
for reducing Scotland to a like condition; 
and though the equity of this latter en- 
terprise may reasonably be questioned, 
the circumstances of the two kingdoms 
promised such certain success, and the 
advantage was so visible in uniting the 
whole island under one head, that those 
who give great indulgence to reasons of 
state in the measures of princes, will not 
be apt to regard this part of his conduct 
with much severity. But Edward, how- 
ever exceptionable his character may ap- 
pear on the head of justice, is the model 
of a politic and warlike king: he pos- 
sessed industry, penetration, courage, vi- 
gilance aud enterprise ; he was frugal in 
all his expences that were not necessary ; 
he knew how to open the public treasures 
on a proper occasion ; he punished cri- 
minals with severity; he was gracious 
and affable to his servants and courtiers ; 
and being of a majestic figure, expert in 
all military exercises, and in the main 
well-proportioned in his limbs, notwith- 
standing the great length and the small- 
ness of his legs, he was as well qualified 
to captivate the populace by his exterior 
appearance, as to gain the approbation of 
men of sense by his more solid virtues. 

But the chief advantage which the 
people of England reaped, and still con- 
tinue to reap, from the reign of this great 
prince, was the correction, extension, 
amendment, and establishment of the 
laws, which Edward maintained in great 
vigour, and left much improved to pos- 
terity : for the acts of a wise legislator 
commonly remain, while the acquisitions 
of a conqueror often perish with him. 
This merit had justly gained to Edward 
the appellation of the English Justinian. 
Not only the numerous statutes passed 
in his reign touch the chief points of ju- 

risprudence, and according to sir Edward 
Coke, truly deserve the name of establish- 
ments, because they were more constant, 
standing and durable laws than any made 
since ; but the regular order maintained 
in his administration gave an opportunity 
to the common law to refine itself, and 
brought the judges to a certainty in their 
determinations, and the lawyers to a 
precision in their pleadings. Sir Matthew 
Hale has remarked the sudden improve- 
ment of English law during this reign; 
and ventures to assert, that till his own 
time it had never received any consider- 
able increase. Edward settled the juris- 
diction of the several courts ; first esta- 
blished the office of justice of peace; 
abstained from the practice too common 
before him, of interrupting justice by 
mandates from the privy council ; re- 
pressed robberies and disorders; encou- 
raged trade by giving merchants an easy 
method of recovering their debts ; and, 
in short, introduced a new face of things 
by the vigour and wisdom of his admi- 
nistration. As law began now to be 
well established, the abuse of that bless- 
ing began also to be remarked. Instead 
of their former associations for robbery 
and violence, men entered into formal 
combinations to support each other in 
lawsuits ; and it was found requisite to 
check this iniquity by act of parliament. 

There happened in this reign a consi- 
derable alteration in the execution of the 
laws: the king abolished the office of 
chief justiciary, which he thought pos- 
sessed too much power, and was dan- 
gerous to the crown : he completed the 
division of the court of exchequer into 
four distinct courts, which managed each 
its several branch, without dependence on 
any one magistrate ; and as the lawyers 
afterwards invented a method by means 
of their fictions, of carrying business from 
one court to another, the several courts 
became rivals and checks to each other ; 
a circumstance which tended much to 
improve the practice of the law in En- 

But though Edward appeared thus, 
throughout his whole reign, a friend to 
law and justice, it cannot be said that he 
was an enemy to arbitrary power ; and in 
a government more regular and legal than 
was that of England in his age, such 
practices as those which may be remarked 
in his administration, would have given 
sufficient ground of complaint, and some- 
times were, even in his age, the object of 



general displeasure. The violent plunder 
and banishment of the Jews ; the putting 
of the whole clergy at once, and by an 
arbitrary edict, out of the protection of 
the law ; the seizing of all the wool and 
leather of the kingdom ; the heightening 
of the impositions on the former valuable 
commodity; the new and illegal com- 
mission of Trailbaston ; the taking of all 
the money and plate of monasteries and 
churches, even before he had any quarrel 
with the clergy ; the subjecting of every 
man possessed of twenty pounds a-year 
to military sendee, though not bound to 
it by his tenure ; his visible reluctance to 
confirm the great charter, as if that con- 
cession had no validity from the deeds of 
his predecessors ; the captious clause 
which he at last annexed to bis confirma- 
tion ; his procuring of the pope's dispen- 
sation from the oaths which he had taken 
to observe the charter ; and his levying 
of talliages at discretion, even after the 
statute, or rather charter by which he 
had renounced that prerogative ; these 
are so many demonstrations of his arbi- 
trary disposition, and prove with what 
exception and reserve we ought to cele- 
brate his love of justice. He took care 
that his sttbjects should do justice to 
each other ; but he desired always to have 
his own hands free in all his transactions, 
both with tliem and with his neighbours. 
David Hume. 


In the village of Domremi, near Vau- 
couleurs, on the borders of Lorraine, 
there lived a country girl of twenty-seven ' 
years of age, called Joan d'Arc, who was 
servant in a small inn, and who in that j 
station had been accustomed to tend the 
horses of the guests, to ride them without 
a saddle to the watering-place, and to 
perform other offices which, in well- j 
frequented inns, commonly fall to the 
share of the men-servants. This girl was ] 
of an irreproachable life, and had not 
hitherto been remarked for any singula- 
rity, whether that she had met with no 
occasion to excite her genius, or that the 
unskilful eyes of those who conversed j 
with her had not been able to discern her | 
uncommon merit. It is easy to imagine I 
that the present situation of France was I 
an interesting object even to persons of ' 
the lowest rank, and would become the i 

frequent subject of conversation. A young 
prince expelled his throne by the sedition 
of native subjects, and by the arms of 
strangers, could not fail to move the com- 
passion of all his people whose hearts 
were uncorrupted by faction; and the 
peculiar character of Charles, so strongly 
inclined to friendship and the tender pas- 
sions, naturally rendered him the hero of 
that sex whose generous minds know no 
bounds in their affections. The siege of 
Orleans, the progress of the English be- 
fore that place, the great distress of the 
garrison and inhabitants, the importance 
of saving this city and its brave defenders, 
had turned thither the public eye ; and 
Joan, inflamed by the general sentiment, 
was seized with a wild desire of bringing 
relief to her sovereign in his present dis- 
tresses. Her inexperienced mind, work- 
ing day and night on this favourite object, 
mistook the impulses of passion for hea- 
venly inspirations ; and she fancied that 
she saw visions, and heard voices exhort- 
ing her to re-establish the throne of 
France and to expel the foreign invaders. 
An uncommon intrepidity of temper made 
her overlook all the dangers which might 
attend her in such a path, and thinking 
herself destined by Heaven to this office, 
she threw aside all that bashfulness and 
timidity so natural to her sex, her years, 
and her low station. She went to Vau- 
couleurs ; procured admission to Baudri- 
court the governor ; informed him of her 
inspirations and intentions, and conjured 
him not to neglect the voice of God, who 
spoke through her, but to second those 
heavenly revelations which impelled her 
to this glorious enterprise. Baudricourt 
treated her at first with some neglect ; 
but on her frequent returns to him and 
importunate solicitations, he began to 
remark something extraordinary in the 
maid, and was inclined, at all hazards, 
to make so easy an experiment. It is 
uncertain whether this gentleman had 
discernment enough to perceive that great 
use might be made with the vulgar of so 
uncommon an engine ; or what is more 
likely in that credulous age, was himself a 
convert to this visionary ; but he adopted 
at last the schemes of Joan, and he gave 
her some attendants, who conducted her 
to the French court, which at that time 
resided at Chinon. 

It is the business of history to distin- 
guish between the miraculous and the 
marvellous ; to reject the first in all nar- 
rations merely profane and human ; to 

. — 



doubt the second ; and when obliged by 
unquestionable testimony, as in the pre- 
sent case, to admit of something extraor- 
dinary, to receive as little of it as is con- 
sistent with the known facts and circum- 

It is pretended that Joan, immediately 
on her admission, knew the king though 
she had never seen his face before, and 
though he purposely kept himself in the 
crowd of courtiers, and had laid aside 
everything in his dress and apparel which 
might distinguish him ; that she offered 
him, in the name of the supreme Creator, 
to raise the siege of Orleans, and conduct 
him to Rheims to be there crowned and 
anointed; and on his expressing doubts 
of her mission, revealed to him, before 
some sworn confidants, a secret which 
was unknown to all the world beside him- 
self, and which nothing but a heavenly 
inspiration could have discovered to her ; 
and that she demanded, as the instrument 
of her future victories, a particular sword 
which was kept in the church of St. Ca- 
therine of Fierbois, and which, though 
she had never seen it, she described by 
all its marks, and by the place in which 
it had long lain neglected. This is cer- 
tain, that all these miraculous stories 
were spread abroad in order to captivate 
the vulgar. The more the king and his 
ministers were determined to give into 
the illusion, the more scruples they pre- 

An assembly of grave doctors and theo- 
logians cautiously examined Joan's mis- 
sion, and pronounced it undoubted and 
supernatural. She was sent to the par- 
liament, then residing at Poictiers, and 
was interrogated before that assembly : 
the presidents, the counsellors, who came 
persuaded of her imposture, went away 
convinced of her inspiration. A ray of 
hope began to break through that despair 
in which the minds of all men were be- 
fore enveloped. Heaven had now declared 
itself in favour of France, and had laid bare 
its outstretched arm to take vengeance on 
her invaders. Few could distinguish be- 
tween the impulse of inclination and the 
force of conviction ; and none would sub- 
mit to the trouble of so disagreeable a 

After these artificial precautions and 
preparations had been for some time em- 
ployed, Joan's requests were at last com- 
plied with : she was armed cap-a-pee, 
mounted on horseback, and shown in that 
martial habiliment before the whole peo- 

ple. Her dexterity in managing her steed, 
though acquired in her former occupation, 
was regarded as a fresh proof of her mis- 
sion ; and she was received with the 
loudest acclamations by the spectators. 
Her former occupation was even denied : 
she was no longer the servant of an inn : 
she was converted into a shepherdess, an 
employment much more agreeable to the 
imagination. To render her still more 
interesting, near ten years were subtracted 
from her age ; and all the sentiments of 
love and of chivalry were thus united to 
those of enthusiasm, in order to inflame 
the fond fancy of the people with pre- 
possessions in her favour. 

When the engine was thus dressed up 
in full splendour, it was determined to 
essay its force against the enemy. Joan 
was sent to Blois, where a large convoy 
was prepared for the supply of Orleans, 
and an army of ten thousand men, under 
the command of St. Severe, assembled to 
escort it. She ordered all the soldiers to 
confess themselves before they set out on 
the enterprise ; she banished from the 
camp all women of bad fame ; she dis- 
played in her hands a consecrated ban- 
ner, where the Supreme Being was repre- 
sented grasping the globe of earth, and 
surrounded with flower-deluces ; and she 
insisted, in right of her prophetic mission, 
that the convoy should enter Orleans by 
the direct road from the side of Beausse : 
but the count of Dunois, unwilling to 
submit the rules of the military art to her 
inspirations, ordered it to approach by 
the other side of the river, where he knew 
the weakest part of the English army was 

Previous to this attempt, the maid had 
written to the regent and to the English 
in the name of the omnipotent Creator, 
by whom she was commissioned, imme- 
diately to raise the siege and to evacuate 
France ; and menacing them with divine 
vengeance in case of their disobedience. 

All the English affected to speak with 
derision of the maid and of her heavenly 
commission; and said that the French 
king was now indeed reduced to a sorry 
pass when he had recourse to such ridi- 
culous expedients ; but they felt their 
imagination secretly struck with the ve- 
hement persuasion which prevailed in all 
around them ; and they waited with an 
anxious expectation, not unmixed with 
horror, for the issue of these extraordi- 
nary preparations. 



As the convoy approached the river, a 
sally was made by the garrison on the 
side of Beausse, to prevent the English 
general from sending any detachment to 
the other side : the provisions were peace- 
ably embarked in boats which the inha- 
bitants of Orleans had sent to receive 
them ; the maid covered with her troops 
the embarkation ; Suffolk did not venture 
to attack her ; and the French general 
carried back the army in safety to Blois ; 
an alteration of affairs which was already 
visible to all the world, and which had a 
proportional effect on the minds of both 

The maid entered the city of Orleans 
arrayed in her military garb, and dis- 

playing her consecrated standard; and 
was received as a celestial deliverer by 
all the inhabitants. They now believed 
themselves invincible under her influence ; 
and Dunois himself, perceiving such a 
mighty alteration both in friends and 
foes, consented that the next convoy, 
which was expected in a few days, should 
enter by the side of Beausse. The con- 
voy approached : no sign of resistance 
appeared in the besiegers : the waggons 
and troops passed without interruption 
between the redoubts of the English. A 
dead silence and astonishment reigned 
among those troops formerly so elated with 
victory 7 , and so fierce for the combat. 

David Hume. 


was born in 1721, at Borthwick in the county of Edinburgh, and educated at Dal- 
keith School and at the University of Edinburgh. In 1741 he obtained his license to 
preach as a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, and in 1762 was elected principal 
of the University of Edinburgh. He was an eloquent and ready orator. He pub- 
lished the History of Scotland, his earliest historical work, in 1759, and an historical 
disquisition concerning India, his last, in 1791. He died at Grange House, near 
Edinburgh, on the 11th of June 1793. 

The History of Charles the Fifth emperor of Germany and the first king of Spain of 
that name, — which is prefaced by a view of the state of society in Europe during the 
Middle Ages, and was published in 1769, — is considered to be the best of Dr. Robert- 
son's works. His language is graceful and majestick, and he excels in drawing 


Bourbon, who saw the necessity of 
dispatch, now that his intentions were 
known, advanced with such speed that he 
gained several marches on the duke d'Ur- 
bino's army, and encamped in the plains 
of Rome on the evening of the 5 th of 
May. From thence he showed his soldiers 
the palaces and churches of that city, 
into which, as the capital of the Christian 
commonwealth, the riches of all Europe 
had flowed during many centuries, with- 
out having been once violated by any 
hostile hand, and commanding them to 
refresh themselves that night, as a pre- 
paration for the assault next day, pro- 

mised them, in reward of their toils and 
valour, the possession of all the treasures 
accumulated there. 

Early in the morning, Bourbon, who 
had determined to distinguish that day 
either by his death or the success of his 
enterprise, appeared at the head of his 
troops, clad in complete armour, above 
which he wore a vest of white tissue, that 
he might be more conspicuous both to his 
friends and to his enemies ; and as all de- 
pended on one bold impression, he led 
them instantly to scale the walls. Three 
distinct bodies, one of Germans, another 
of Spaniards, and the last of Italians, the 
three different nations of whom the army 
was composed, were appointed to this 
service ; a separate attack was assigned to 
each, and the whole army advanced to 





support them as occasion should require. 
A thick mist concealed their approach 
until they reached almost the hrink of 
the ditch which surrounded the suburbs : 
having planted their ladders in a moment, 
each brigade rushed on to the assault with 
an impetuosity heightened by national 
emulation. They were received at first 
with fortitude equal to their own ; the 
Swiss in the pope's guards, and the vete- 
ran soldiers who had been assembled, 
fought with a courage becoming men to 
whom the defence of the noblest city in 
the world was entrusted. Bourbon's 
troops, notwithstanding all their valour, 
gained no ground, and even began to give 
way, when their leader, perceiving that 
on this critical moment the fate of the 
day depended, threw himself from his 
horse, pressed to the front, snatched a 
scaling ladder from a soldier, planted it 
against the wall, and began to mount it, 
encouraging his men with his voice and 
hand to follow him. But at that very in- 
stant a musket bullet from the ramparts 
pierced his groin with a wound, which he 
immediately felt to be mortal ; but he re- 
tained so much presence of mind as to 
desire those who were near him to cover 
his body with a cloak, that his death 
might not dishearten his troops ; and soon 
after he expired with a courage worthy of 
a better cause, and which would have en- 
titled him to the highest praise, if he had 
thus fallen in defence of his country, not 
at the head of its enemies. 

This fatal event could not be concealed 
from the army, the soldiers soon missed 
their general, whom they were accus- 
tomed to see in every time of danger ; 
but instead of being disheartened by their 
loss, it animated them with new valour ; 
the name of Bourbon resounded along the 
line, accompanied with the cry of blood 
and revenge. The veterans who defended 
the walls were soon overpowered by num- 
bers ; the untrained body of city recruits 
fled at the sight of danger, and the enemy 
with irresistible violence rushed into the 

During the combat, Clement was em- 
ployed at the altar of St. Peter's, in offer- 
ing up to heaven unavailing prayers for 
victory. No sooner was he informed that 
his troops began to give way than he fled 
with precipitation ; and with an infatua- 
tion still more amazing than anything 
already mentioned, instead of making his 
escape by the opposite gate, where there 
was no enemy to oppose it, he shut him- 

self up, together with thirteen cardinals, 
the foreign ambassadors, and many per- 
sons of distinction, in the castle of St. 
Angelo, which he might have known to 
be an insecure retreat. In his way from 
the Vatican to that fortress, he saw his 
troops flying before an enemy who pur- 
sued without giving quarter ; he heard the 
cries and lamentations of the Roman citi- 
zens, and beheld the beginning of those 
calamities which his own credulity and 
ill-conduct had brought upon his sub- 
jects. It is impossible to describe, or 
even to imagine, the misery and horror 
of that scene which followed. Whatever 
a city taken by storm can dread from 
military rage unrestrained by discipline; 
whatever excesses the ferocity of the 
Germans, the avarice of the Spaniards, or 
the licentiousness of the Italians could 
commit, these, the wretched inhabitants 
were obliged to suffer. Churches, palaces 
and the houses of private persons were 
plundered without distinction. No age, 
or character, or sex was exempt from 
injury. Cardinals, nobles, priests, ma- 
trons, virgins, were all the prey of soldiers, 
and at the mercy of men deaf to the voice 
of humanity. Nor did these outrages 
cease, as is usual in towns which are 
carried by assault, when the first fury of 
the storm was over ; the Imperialists kept 
possession of Rome several months ; and 
during all that time the insolence and 
brutality of the soldiers hardly abated. 
Their bootyin ready money alone amounted 
to a million of ducats ; what they raised 
by ransoms and exactions far exceeded 
that sum. Rome, though taken several 
different times by the northern nations, 
who overran the empire in the fifth and 
sixth centuries, was never treated with 
so much cruelty by the barbarous and 
heathen Huns, Vandals, or Goths, as now 
by the bigoted subjects of a catholic 
monarch. William Robertson. 


The garrison of Pavia was reduced to 
extremity ; their ammunition and pro- 
visions began to fail ; the Germans, of 
whom it was chiefly composed, having 
received no pay for seven months, threat- 
ened to deliver the town into the enemy's 
hands, and could hardly be restrained 
from mutiny by all Leyva's address and 
authority. The Imperial generals, who 



were no strangers to his situation, saw 
the necessity of marching without loss of 
time to his relief. This they had now in 
their power: twelve thousand Germans, 
whom the zeal and activity of Bourhon 
taught to move with unusual rapidity, had 
entered Lombardy under his command, 
and rendered the Imperial army nearly 
equal to that of the French, greatly di- 
minished by the absence of the body 
under Albany, as well as by the fa- 
tigues of the siege and the rigour of the 
season. But the more their troops in- 
creased in number, the more sensibly did 
they feel the distress arising from want of 
money. Far from having funds for pay- 
ing a powerful army, they had scarcely 
what was sufficient for defraying the 
charges of conducting their artillery and 
of carrying their ammunition and pro- 
visions. The abilities of the generals, 
however, supplied every defect. By their 
own example, as well as by magnificent 
promises in the name of the emperor, 
they prevailed on the troops of all the 
different nations which composed their 
army to take the field without pay ; they 
engaged to lead them directly towards the 
enemy, and flattered them with the cer- 
tain prospect of victory, which would at 
once enrich them with such royal spoils 
as would be an ample reward for all their 
services. The soldiers, sensible that, by 
quitting the army, they would forfeit the 
vast arrears due to them, and eager to 
get possession of the promised treasures, 
demanded a battle with all the impatience 
of adventurers who fight only for plunder. 
The Imperial generals, without suffering 
the ardcur of their troops to cool, ad- 
vanced immediately towards the French 
camp. On the first intelligence of their 
approach, Francis called a council of war, 
to deliberate what course he ought to 
take. All his officers of greatest experi- 
ence were unanimous in advising him to 
retire, and to decline a battle with an 
enemy who courted it from despair. The 
leaders of the Imperialists, they observed, 
would either be obliged in a few weeks to 
disband an army which they were unable 
to pay, and which they kept together only 
by the hope of pillage, or the soldiers, en- 
raged at the non-performance of the pro- 
mises to which they had trusted, would 
rise in some furious mutiny which would 
allow them to think of nothing but their 
own safety ; that, meanwhile, he might 
encamp in some strong post, and waiting 
in safety the arrival of fresh troops from 

France and Switzerland, might, before 
the end of spring, take possession of all 
the Milanese without danger or blood- 
shed. But in opposition to them, Bon- 
nivet, whose destiny it was to give coun- 
sels fatal to France during the whole 
campaign, represented the ignominy that 
it would reflect on their sovereign, if he 
should abandon a siege which he had pro- 
secuted so long, or turn his back before 
an enemy to whom he was still superior 
in number, and insisted on the necessity 
of fighting the Imperialists rather than 
relinquish an undertaking, on the success 
! of which the king's future fame depended. 
' Unfortunately, Francis's notions of honour 
I were delicate to an excess that bordered 
I on what was romantic. Having often 
said that he would take Pavia, or perish 
in the attempt, he thought himself bound 
i not to depart from that resolution ; and 
I rather than expose himself to the slightest 
imputation, he chose to forego all the ad- 
vantages which were the certain conse- 
quences of a retreat, and determined to 
j wait for the Imperialists before the walls 
of Pavia. 

The Imperial generals found the French 
' so strongly entrenched, that notwith- 
| standing the powerful motives which 
! urged them on, they hesitated long before 
they ventured to attack them ; but at last 
the necessities of the besieged, and the 
murmurs of their own soldiers, obliged 
them to put everything to hazard. Never 
! did armies engage with greater ardour, or 
with a higher opinion of the importance 
of the battle which they were going to 
fight ; never were troops more strongly 
animated with emulation, national anti- 
pathy, mutual resentment, and all the 
passions which inspire obstinate bravery. 
On the one hand, a gallant young mo- 
narch, seconded by a generous nobility, 
and followed by subjects to whose natural 
impetuosity, indignation at the opposition 
which they had encountered, added new 
force, contended for victory and honour. 
On the other side, troops more completely 
disciplined, and conducted by generals of 
greater abilities, fought from necessity, 
with courage heightened by despair. The 
Imperialists, however, were unable to re- 
sist the first efforts of the French valour, 
and their firmest battalions began to give 
way. But the fortune of the day was 
quickly changed ; the Swiss in the service 
of France, unmindful of the reputation of 
their country for fidelity and martial glory, 
abandoned their post in a cowardly man- 



ner. Leyva, with his garrison, sallied out 
and attacked the rear of the French during 
the heat of the action with such fury as 
threw it into confusion ; and Pescara falling 
on their cavalry with the Imperial horse, 
among whom he had prudently intermin- 
gled a considerable number of Spanish 
foot, armed with the heavy muskets then 
in use, broke this formidable body by an 
unusual method of attack, against which 
they were wholly unprovided. The rout 
became universal, and resistance ceased 
in almost every part, but where the king 
was in person, who fought now, not for 
fame or victory, but for safety. Though 
wounded in several places, and thrown 
from his horse, which was killed under 
him, Francis defended himself on foot 
with an heroick courage. Many of his 
bravest officers gathering round him, and 
endeavouring to save his life at the ex- 
pense of their own, fell at his feet. Among 
these was Bonnivet, the author of this 
great calamity, who alone died unlamented. 
The king, exhausted with fatigue, and 
scarcely capable of further resistance, was 
left almost alone, exposed to the fury of 
some Spanish soldiers, strangers to his 
rank and enraged at his obstinacy. At 
that moment came up Pomperant, a French 
gentleman, who had entered together with 
Bourbon into the emperor's service, and 
placing himself by the side of the monarch 
against whom he had rebelled, assisted in 
protecting him from the violence of the 
soldiers ; at the same time beseeching him 
to surrender to Bourbon, who was not far 
distant. Imminent as the danger was 
which now surrounded Francis, he re- 
jected with indignation the thoughts of 
an action which would have afforded such 
matter of triumph to his traitorous subject, 
and calling for Lannoy, who happened 
likewise to be near at hand, gave up his 
sword to him, which he, kneeling to kiss 
the king's hand, received with profound 
respect, and taking his own sword from 
his side, presented it to him, saying, " that 
it did not become so great a monarch to 
remain disarmed in the presence of one 
of the emperor's subjects." 

Ten thousand men fell on this day, one 
of the most fatal France had ever seen. 
Among these were many noblemen of the 
highest distinction, who chose rather to 
perish than to turn their backs with dis- 
honour. Not a few were taken prisoners, 
of whom the most illustrious was Henry 
d'Albret, the unfortunate king of Navarre. 
A small body of the rear-guard made its 

escape under the command of the duke 
Alencon ; the feeble garrison of Milan, on 
the first news of the defeat, retired with- 
out being pursued, by another road ; and 
in two weeks after the battle not a 
Frenchman remained in Italy. 

William Robertson. 


While improvements so important with 
respect to the state of society and the 
administration of justice gradually made 
progress in Europe, sentiments more li- 
beral and generous had begun to animate 
the nobles. These were inspired by the 
spirit of chivalry, which, though con- 
sidered commonly as a wild institution, 
the effect of caprice and the source of ex- 
travagance, arose naturally from the state 
of society at that period, and had a very 
serious influence in refining the manners 
of the European nations. The feudal 
state was a state of perpetual war, rapine 
and anarchy, during which the weak and 
unarmed were exposd every moment to 
insults or injuries. The power of the 
sovereign was too limited to prevent these 
wrongs, and the administration of justice 
too feeble to redress them. There was 
scarcely any protection against violence 
and oppression but what the valour and 
generosity of private persons afforded. 
The same spirit of enterprise which had 
prompted so many gentlemen to take 
arms in defence of the oppressed pilgrims 
in Palestine, incited others to declare 
themselves the patrons and avengers of 
injured innocence at home. When the 
final reduction of the Holy Land under 
the dominion of infidels put an end to 
these foreign expeditions, the latter was 
the only employment left for the activity 
and courage of adventurers. To check 
the insolence of overgrown oppressors ; 
to succour the distressed ; to rescue the 
helpless from captivity ; to protect or to 
avenge women, orphans and ecclesiastics, 
who could not bear arms in their own de- 
fence ; to redress wrongs and to remove 
grievances ; were deemed acts of the high- 
est prowess and merit. Valour, humanity, 
courtesy, justice, honour, were the cha- 
racteristic qualities of chivalry. To these 
were added religion, which mingled itself 
with every passion and institution during 
the Middle Ages, and, by infusing a large 
proportion of enthusiastic zeal, gave them 



such force as carried them to a romantic 
excess. Men were trained to knighthood 
by a long previous discipline ; they were 
admitted into the order by solemnities no 
less devout than pompous ; every person 
of noble birth courted that honour ; it 
was deemed a distinction superior to 
royalty ; and monarchs were proud to re- 
ceive it from the hands of private gentle- 

This singular institution, in which va- 
lour, gallantry and religion were so strange- 
ly blended, was wonderfully adapted to 
the taste and genius of martial nobles ; 
and its effects were soon visible in their 
manners. War was carried on with less 
ferocity, when humanity came to bedeemed 
the ornament of knighthood no less than 
courage. More gentle and polished man- 
ners were introduced, when courtesy was 
recommended as the most amiable of 
knightly virtues. Violence and oppression 
decreased, when it was reckoned meri- 
torious to check and to punish them. A 
scrupulous adherence to truth, with the 
most religious attention to fulfil every en- 
gagement, became the distinguishing cha- 
racteristic of a gentleman, because chi- 
valry was regarded as the school of ho- 
nour, and inculcated the most delicate 
sensibility with respect to that point. The 
admiration of these qualities, together 

with the high distinctions and preroga- 
tives conferred on knighthood in every 
part of Europe, inspired persons of noble 
birth, on some occasions, with a species of 
military fanaticism, and led them to ex- 
travagant enterprises. But they imprinted 
deeply in their minds the principles of 
generosity and honour. These were 
strengthened by everything that can af- 
fect the senses or touch the heart. The 
wild exploits of those romantic knights 
who sallied forth in quest qf adventures 
are well known, and have been treated with 
proper ridicule. The political and perma- 
nent effects of the spirit of chivalry have 
been less observed. Perhaps the humanity 
which accompanies all the operations of 
war, tbe refinements of gallantry, and the 
point of honour, the three chief circum- 
stances which distinguish modern from 
ancient manners, may be ascribed in a 
great measure to this whimsical institu- 
tion, seemingly of little benefit to man- 
kind. The sentiments which chivalry 
inspired had a wonderful influence on man- 
ners and conduct during the twelfth, thir- 
teenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. 
They were so deeply rooted that they con- 
tinued to operate after the rigour and re- 
putation of the institution itself began to 
decline. William Robertson. 


was born on the 27th of April 1737, at Putney in Surrey. He was sickly in child- 
hood, and owed his life to the affectionate care of his aunt Catherine Porten. In 
January 1746 he was sent to a school at Kingston-upon-Thames, and in 1749 to 
Westminster School, from which he was removed in 1750, and for two years, going 
from place to place in search of health, he read under the care of occasional tutors. 
It was, as he says, to be feared that he would continue for life an illiterate cripple, 
but as he grew up to youth he grew in strength. In 1752 he was placed at Esher in 
Surrey, with Philip Francis, the translator of Horace : it was found that Mr. Francis 
preferred the pleasures of London to the care of his pupils, and Gibbon's father, in 
perplexity, at once carried his son to Magdalen College, Oxford, before he was fifteen 
years of age. Like Sir Walter Scott, unable to mingle in the common sports of boys, 
Gibbon had sought for amusement in desultory reading, until an indiscriminate appe- 
tite for books subsided in a love of history. He arrived at Oxford, as he tells us, with 
a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of 
which a school-boy would have been ashamed. There he passed fourteen months, the 
most idle and unprofitable of his life, until, having been led, by a course of contro- 
versial reading, to join the Roman Catholic Church, he was obliged to quit his college 
for ever. His father sent him to a Protestant clergyman at Lausanne in Switzerland, 




where he remained from July 1753 to April 1758. During this visit he renounced 
the Roman Catholic faith, studied diligently and with method, corresponding with 
learned men throughout Europe, and fell in love with Susan Curchod, afterward the 
wife of M. Necker, minister of France and the mother of Madame de Stael. Gibbon's 
father did not approve of the proposed marriage, and the lover gave up the lady with 
more than praiseworthy resignation. 

From his return to England, in 1758, until 1763, he passed his time partly in Lon- 
don, partly at his father's seat in the country, and in marching with the Hampshire 
militia, in which he was a captain. During this period he published, in 1761, an 
Essay on the history of literature, which was written in the French language, and was 
his earliest work. From 1763 to 1765 he travelled in France, Switzerland and Italy ; 
and at Rome, among the ruins of the Capitol, first conceived the idea of his great 
work, the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In 1765 he re- 
turned to England ; his father died in 1770, and in 1772, settling himself in London, 
he began the first volume of his History, which was published in 1776, and met with 
great success. From the beginning of the contest with America down to the coalition 
between lord North and Mr. Fox, Gibbon, — who was a personal friend of lord North, to 
whom he paid a noble tribute of praise in the preface to his fourth volume — was, with 
one short interval, in parliament ; but he found that he had not talents for publick 
speaking, and the fear that to fail as a speaker might tarnish the fame which he had 
gained as a writer, kept him silent. During part of this time he was one of the 
Lords of Trade, an office abolished by the Rockingham administration. In 1779 he 
published the second and third volumes of his History, and had nearly concluded the 
fourth, in September 1783, when he left England and took up his residence, until 
1787, in a house which he purchased at Lausanne. On the night of the 27th of June 

1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, he ended the labour of twenty years 
by writing the last lines of the last page of his History, in a summer-house in his 
garden at Lausanne. He then visited England, but returned to Switzerland in July 

1788, and was driven home again, in 1793, by the progress of the French Revolution. 
On the 16th of January 1794 he died at his lodgings in St. James's-street, London, 
and was buried at Fletching in Sussex. 

No one has attempted to impeach the character of Gibbon in private life ; he seems 
to have been a man of even temper, undisturbed by any violent affection, and consti- 
tutionally disposed to be quiet ; his manners were pleasant ; he could not abide dispu- 
tation, but in company where the lead was given to him, he spoke much and agree- 
ably, though he was a little precise. 

His History, — which, after a review of the Roman empire under Augustus and his 
immediate successors, begins at the year 180 and ends about the year 1500, — never has 
been, and probably never will be equalled in extent of learning, in accuracy, and in 
the consummate skill with which the vast stores which the patient industry of many 
years had gathered, are arranged in order : his style, which all allow to be rich and 
forcible, has been blamed as laboured and pompous ; perhaps it is not ill-suited to the 
dignity of his subject : but he has grievous faidts — a want of decency, as offensive to 
good taste as to morality, and an insane hatred to Christianity, which, as Professor 
Porson said, he seemed to detest as though he were revenging some personal injury. 
It was indeed part of his task to treat of the corruptions of the church, but those he 
should have held up to infamy by contrasting them with the law of Christianity writ- 
ten in the sacred scripture. 

Gibbon wrote also very interesting memoirs of his own life and several critical 
essays. His History was attacked by a host of adversaries, some of whom, thinking 



that Truth was not strong enough to defend her own cause, accused him of gross 
ignorance and wilful falsehood. The historian vindicated himself, with a lofty scorn 
of these assailants, in one of the few books of literary controversy which will he 
always and widely read. 


Under the reign of these monsters, the 
slavery of the Romans was accompanied 
with two peculiar circumstances, the one | 
occasioned by their former liberty, the 
other by their extensive conquests, which 
rendered their condition more wretched 
than that of the victims of tyranny in 
any other age or country 7 . From these 
causes were derived, — 1, the exquisite 
sensibility of the sufferers ; and 2, the 
impossibility of escaping from the hand 
of the oppressor. 

1. When Persia was governed by the 
descendants of Sesi, a race of princes 
whose wanton cruelty often stained their 
divan, their table and their bed, with the 
blood of their favourites, there is a saying 
recorded of a young nobleman, that he 
never departed from the sultan's presence 
without satisfying himself whether his 
head was still on his shoulders. The ex- 
perience of every day might almost justify 
the scepticism of Rustan. Yet the fatal 
sword suspended above him by a single 
thread, seems not to have disturbed the 
slumbers or interrupted the tranquillity 
of the Persian. The monarch's frown, he 
well knew, could level him with the 
dust ; but the stroke of lightning or apo- 
plexy might be equally fatal ; and it was 
the part of a wise man to forget the 
inevitable calamities of human life in the 
enjoyment of the fleeting hour. He was 
dignified with the appellation of the king's 
slave ; had, perhaps, been purchased from 
obscure parents, in a country which he 
had never known, and was trained up 
from his infancy in the severe discipline 
of the seraglio. His name, his wealth, 
his honours, were the gift of a master, 
who might, without injustice, resume what 
he had bestowed. Rustan's knowledge, if 
he possessed any, could only serve to con- 
firm his habits by prejudices. His lan- 
guage afforded not words for any form of 
government, except absolute monarchy. 
The history of the east informed him that 
such had ever been the condition of man- 
kind. The Koran, and the interpreters 
of that book, inculcated to him that the 

sultan was the descendant of the prophet 
and the vicegerent of heaven ; that pa- 
tience was the first virtue of a Mussul- 
man, and unlimited obedience the great 
duty of a subject. 

The minds of the Romans were very 
differently prepared for slavery. Op- 
pressed beneath the weight of their own 
corruption and of military violence, they 
for a long while preserved the sentiments, 
or at least the ideas, of their freeborn an- 
cestors. The education of Helvidius and 
Thrasea, of Tacitus and Pliny, was the 
same as that of Cato and Cicero. From 
Grecian philosophy they had imbibed the 
justest and most liberal notions of the 
dignity of human nature, and the origin 
of civil society. The history of their own 
country had taught them to revere a free, 
a virtuous, and a victorious common- 
wealth ; to abhor the successful crimes of 
Caesar and Augustus, and inwardly to de- 
spise those tyrants whom they adored with 
the most abject flatter}'. As magistrates 
and senators they were admitted into the 
great council, which had once dictated 
laws to the earth, whose name still gave 
a sanction to the acts of the monarch, and 
whose authority was so often prostituted 
to the vilest purposes of tyranny. Tibe- 
rius and those emperors who adopted his 
maxims attempted to disguise their mur- 
ders by the formalities of justice, and per- 
haps enjoyed a secret pleasure in render- 
ing the senate their accomplice, as well 
as their victim. By this assembly the 
last of the Romans were condemned for 
imaginary crimes and real virtues. Their 
infamous accusers assumed the language 
of independent patriots, who arraigned a 
dangerous citizen before the tribunal of 
his country ; and the public service was 
rewarded by riches and honours. The 
servile judges professed to assert the ma- 
jesty of the commonwealth, violated in 
the person of its first magistrate, whose 
clemency they most applauded when they 
trembled the most at his inexorable and 
impending cruelty. The tyrant beheld 
their baseness with just contempt, and en- 
countered their secret sentiments of de- 
testation with sincere and avowed hatred 
for the whole body of the senate. 

2. The division of Europe into a num- 



ber of independent states, connected how- 
ever with each other by the general re- 
semblance of religion, language and man- 
ners, is productive of the most beneficial 
consequences to the liberty of mankind. 
A modern tyrant who should find no re- 
sistance either in his own breast or in his 
people, would soon experience a gentle 
restraint from the example of his equals, 
the dread of present censure, the advice 
of his allies, and the apprehension of his 
enemies. The object of his displeasure 
escaping from the narrow limits of his 
dominions, would easily obtain, in a hap- 
pier climate, a secure refuge, a new for- 
tune, adequate to his merit, the freedom 
of complaint, and perhaps the means of 
revenge. But the empire of the Romans 
filled the world, and when that empire 
fell into the hands of a single person, the 
world became a secure and dreary prison 
for his enemies. The slave of imperial 
despotism, whether he was condemned to 
drag his gilded chain in Rome and the 
senate, or to wear out a life of exile on 
the barren rock of Seriphus, or the frozen 
banks of the Danube, expected his fate in 
silent despair. To resist was fatal, and it 
was impossible to fly. On every side he 
was encompassed with a vast extent of 
sea and land, which he could never hope 
to traverse without being discovered, 
seized, and restored to his irritated master. 
Beyond the frontiers his anxious view 
could discover nothing, except the ocean, 
inhospitable deserts, hostile tribes of bar- 
barians, of fierce manners and unknown 
language ; or dependent kings, who would 
gladly purchase the emperor's protection 
by the sacrifice of an obnoxious fugitive. 
" Wherever you are," said Cicero to the 
exiled Marcellus, " remember that you 
are equally within the power of our con- 
queror." Edward Gibbon. 


The last resource of the Romans was in 
the clemency, or, at least, in the mode- 
ration of the king of the Goths. The se- 
nate, who in this emergency assumed the 
supreme powers of government, appointed 
two ambassadors to negotiate with the 
enemy. This important trust was dele- 
gated to Basilius, a senator of Spanish 
extraction, and already conspicuous in the 
administration of provinces ; and to John, 
the first tribune of the notaries, who was 

peculiarly qualified by his dexterity in 
business as well as by his former intimacy 
with the Gothic prince. When they were 
introduced into his presence, they de- 
clared, perhaps in a more lofty style than 
became their abject condition, that the 
Romans were resolved to maintain their 
dignity, either in peace or war ; and that, 
if Alaric refused them a fair and honour- 
able capitulation, he might sound his 
trumpets and prepare to give battle to an 
innumerable people, exercised in arms, 
and animated by despair. " The thicker 
the hay the easier it is mowed," was the 
concise reply of the barbarian ; and this 
rustic metaphor was accompanied by a 
loud and insulting laugh, expressive of his 
contempt for the menaces of an unwar- 
like populace, enervated by luxury before 
they were emaciated by famine. He then 
condescended to fix the ransom which 
he would accept as the price of his retreat 
from the walls of Rome : all the gold and 
silver in the city, whether it were the pro- 
perty of the state or individuals ; all the 
rich and precious moveables ; and all the 
slaves who could prove their title to the 
name of barbarians. The ministers of the 
senate presumed to ask, in a modest and 
suppliant tone, " If such, king, are your 
demands, what do you intend to leave us?" 
" Your lives," replied the haughty con- 
queror : they trembled and retired. Yet, 
before they retired, a short suspension of 
arms was granted, which allowed some 
time for a more temperate negotiation. 
The stern features of Alaric were insen- 
sibly relaxed ; he abated much of the ri- 
gour of his terms ; and at length consent- 
ed to raise the siege, on the immediate 
payment of five thousand pounds of gold, 
of thirty thousand pounds of silver, of four 
thousand robes of silk, of three thousand 
pieces of fine scarlet cloth, and of three 
thousand pounds weight of pepper. But 
the public treasury was exhausted ; the 
annual rents of the great estates in Italy 
and the provinces were intercepted by the 
calamities of war ; the gold and gems had 
been exchanged, during the famine, for 
the vilest sustenance ; the hoards of se- 
cret wealth were still concealed by the 
obstinacy of avarice; and some remains 
of consecrated spoils afforded the only re- 
source that could avert the impending 
ruin of the city. As soon as the Romans 
had satisfied the rapacious demands of 
Alaric, they were restored, in some mea- 
sure, to the enjoyment of peace and plenty. 
Several of the gates were cautiously open- 



ed; the importation of provisions from 
the river and the adjacent country was no 
longer obstructed by the Goths ; the citi- 
zens resorted in crowds to the free mar- 
ket, which was held during three days in 
the suburbs ; and while the merchants 
who undertook this gainful trade made a 
considerable profit, the future subsistence 
of the city was secured by the ample ma- 
gazines which were deposited in the pub- 
lic and private granaries. 

Edward Gibbon. 


The original right of property can only 
be justified by the accident or merit of 
prior occupancy ; and on this foundation 
it is wisely established by the philosophy 
of the civilians. The savage who hollows 
a tree, inserts a sharp stone into a wooden 
handle, or applies a string to an elastic 
branch, becomes in a state of nature the 
just proprietor of the canoe, the bow, or 
the hatchet. The materials were common 
to all, the new form, the produce of his 
time and simple industry, belongs solely 
to himself. His hungry brethren cannot, 
without a sense of their own injustice, ex- 
tort from the hunter the game of the 
forest, overtaken or slain by his personal 
strength and dexterity. If his provident 
care preserves and multiplies the tame 
animals, whose nature is tractable to the 
arts of education, he acquires a perpetual 
title to the use and service of their nume- 
rous progeny, which derives its existence 
from him alone. If he encloses and cul- 
tivates a field for their sustenance and his 
own, a barren waste is converted into a 
fertile soil ; the seed, the manure, the la- 
bour, create a new value, and the rewards 
of harvest are painfully earned by the 
fatigues of the revolving year. In the 
successive states of society, the hunter, the 
shepherd, the husbandman, may defend 
their possessions by two reasons, which 
forcibly appeal to the feelings of the hu- 
man mind : that whatever they enjoy is 
the fruit of their own industry ; and that 
every man who envies their felicity, may 
purchase similar acquisitions by the exer- 
cise of similar diligence. Such, in truth, 
may be the freedom and plenty of a small 
colony cast on a fruitful island. But the 
colony multiplies while the space still 
continues the same : the common rights, 
the equal inheritance of mankind, are en- 

grossed by the bold and crafty ; each field 
and forest is circumscribed by the land- 
marks of a jealous master; and it is the 
peculiar praise of the Roman jurispru- 
dence, that it asserts the claim of the first 
occupant to the wild animals of the earth, 
the air, and the waters. In the progress 
from primitive equity to final injustice, 
the steps are silent, the shades are almost 
imperceptible, and the absolute monopoly 
is guarded by positive laws and artificial 
reason. The active insatiate principle of 
self-love can alone supply the arts of life 
and the wages of industry ; and as soon 
as civil government and exclusive property 
have been introduced, they become neces- 
sary to the existence of the human race. 
Except in the singular institutions of 
Sparta, the wisest legislators have disap- 
proved an agrarian law as a false and dan- 
gerous innovation. Among the Romans, 
the enormous disproportion of wealth sur- 
mounted the ideal restraints of a doubtful 
tradition and an obsolete statute ; a tra- 
dition that the poorest follower of Romu- 
lus had been endowed with the perpetual 
inheritance of two jugera, a statute which 
confined the richest citizen to the measure 
of five hundred jugera, or three hundred 
and twelve acres of land. The original 
territory of Rome consisted only of some 
miles of wood and meadow along the 
banks of the Tiber; and domestic ex- 
change could add nothing to the national 
stock. But the goods of an alien or enemy 
were lawfully exposed to the first hostile 
occupier; the city was enriched by the 
profitable trade of war; and the blood of 
her sons was the only price that was paid 
for the Volscian sheep, the slaves of Bri- 
tain, or the gems and gold of Asiatic king- 
doms. In the language of ancient juris- 
prudence, which was corrupted and for- 
gotten before the age of Justinian, these 
spoils were distinguished by the name of 
manceps or mancipium, taken with the 
hand ; and whenever they were sold or 
emancipated, the purchaser required some 
assurance that they had been the property 
of an enemy, and not of a fellow-citizen. 
A citizen could only forfeit his rights by 
apparent dereliction, and such dereliction 
of a valuable interest could not easily be 
presumed. Yet, according to the twelve 
tables, a prescription of one year for move- 
ables, and of two years for immoveables, 
abolished the claim of the ancient master, 
if the actual possessor had acquired them 
by a fair transaction from the person 
whom he believed to be the lawful pro- 



prietor. Such conscientious injustice, 
without any mixture of fraud or force, 
could seldom injure the members of a 
small republic ; but the various periods of 
three, of ten, or of twenty years, deter- 
mined by Justinian, are more suitable to 
the latitude of a great empire. It is only 
in the term of prescription that the di- 
stinction of real and personal fortune has 
been remarked by the civilians, and their 
general idea of property is that of simple, 

uniform and absolute dominion. The sub- 
ordinate exceptions of use, of usufruct, 
of servitudes, imposed for the benefit of a 
neighbour on lands and houses, are abun- 
dantly explained by the professors of ju- 
risprudence. The claims of property, as 
far as they are altered by the mixture, 
the division, or the transformation of sub- 
stances, are investigated with metaphysi- 
cal subtlety by the same civilians. 

Edward Gibbon. 


(For Notes of his Life see p. 10.) 


The French having received a train of 
mortars, howitzers, and twelve -pounders, 
which were of sufficient calibre against 
mud walls, kept up a constant fire, and 
showered down shells and grenades from 
the Torrero. About twelve hundred were 
thrown into the town, and there was not 
one building that was bomb-proof within 
the walls. After a time the inhabitants 
placed beams of timber together, endways, 
against the houses, in a sloping direction, 
behind which those who were near when 
a shell fell might shelter themselves. The 
enemy continued also to invest the city 
more closely, while the Aragonese made 
every effort to strengthen their means of 
defence. They tore down the awnings 
from their windows, and formed them into 
sacks, which they filled with sand, and 
piled up before the gates in the form of a 
battery, digging round it a deep trench. 
They broke holes for musketry in the 
walls and intermediate buildings, and sta- 
tioned cannon where the position was fa- 
vourable for it. The houses in the envi- 
rons were destroyed. " Gardens and olive 
grounds," says an eye-witness, " that in 
better times had been the recreation and 
support of their owners, were cheerfully 
rooted up by the proprietors themselves 
wherever they impeded the defence of the 
city, or covered the approach of the 
enemy." Women of all ranks assisted; 
they formed themselves into companies, 
some to relieve the wounded, some to 
carry water, wine and provisions to those 
who defended the gates. The countess 
Burita instituted a corps for this service ; 

she was young, delicate, and beautiful. 
In the midst of the most tremendous fire 
of shot and shells, she was seen coolly at- 
tending to those occupations which were 
now become her duty; nor throughout 
the whole of a two months' siege did the 
imminent danger to which she incessantly 
exposed herself produce the slightest ap- 
parent effect upon her, or in the slightest 
degree bend her from her heroic purpose. 
Some of the monks bore arms ; others ex- 
ercised their spiritual offices to the dying; 
others, with the nuns, were busied in 
making cartridges, which the children dis- 

During the night of the 28th of June, 
the powder magazine, in the area where 
the bull-fights were performed, which 
was in the very heart of the city, was 
blown up, by which fourteen houses were 
destroyed, and about two hundred per- 
sons killed. This was the signal for 
the enemy to appear before three gates 
which had been sold to them. And while 
the inhabitants were digging out their 
fellow-citizens from the ruins, a fire was 
opened upon them with mortars, howit- 
zers and cannons, which had now been 
received for battering the town. Their 
attack seemed chiefly to be directed against 
the gate called Portillo, and a large square 
building near it, without the walls, and 
surrounded by a deep ditch ; though call- 
ed a castle, it served only for a prison. 
The sand-bag battery before this gate was 
frequently destroyed, and as often recon- 
structed under the fire of the enemy. The 
carnage here throughout the day was 
dreadful. Augustina Zaragoza, a hand- 
some woman of the lower class, about 



twenty-two years of age, arrived at this 
battery with refreshments, at the time 
when not a man who defended it was left 
alive, so tremendous was the fire which 
the French kept up against it. For a mo- 
ment the citizens hesitated to re-man the 
guns. Augustina sprung forward over the 
dead and dying, snatched a match from 
the hand of a dead artillery man, and fired 
off a six-and-twenty pounder ; then jump- 
ing upon the gun, made a solemn vow 
never to quit it alive during the siege. 
Such a sight could not but animate with 
fresh courage all who beheld it. The Za- 
ragozans rushed into the battery, and re- 
newed their fire with greater vigour than 
ever, and the French were repulsed here 
and at all other points with great slaughter. 
On the morning of this day a fellow was 
detected going out of the city with letters 
to Murat. It was not till after these re- 
peated proofs of treasonable practices that 
the French residents in Zaragoza, with 
other suspected persons, were taken into 

Lefebvre, now supposing that his de- 
structive bombardment must have dismay- 
ed the people, and convinced them how 
impossible it was for so defenceless a city 
to persist in withstanding him, again at- 
tempted to force his way into the town, 
thinking that, as soon as his troops could 
effect a lodgment within the gates, the 
Zaragozans would submit. On the 2nd 
of July, a column of his army marched out 
of their battery, which was almost within 
musket-shot of the Portillo, and advanced 
towards it with fixed bayonets and with- 
out firing a shot. But when they reached 
the castle, such a discharge of grape and 
musketry was opened upon their flank, 
that, notwithstanding the most spirited 
exertions of their officers, the column im- 
mediately dispersed. The remainder of 
their force had been drawn up to support 
their attack, and follow them into the 
city ; but it was impossible to bring them 
a second time to the charge. The gene- 
ral however ordered another column in- 
stantly to advance against the gate of the 
Carmen, on the left of the Portillo. This 
entrance was defended by a sand-bag bat- 
tery and by musketeers, who lined the 
walls on each side, and commanded two 
out of three approaches to it ; and here 
also the French suffered great loss and 
were repulsed. 

On the 4th of August, the French 
opened batteries within pistol-shot of the 
church and convent of St. Engracia. The 

mud walls were levelled at the first dis- 
charge ; and the besiegers rushing through 
the opening, took the batteries before the 
adjacent gates in reverse. Here general 
Mori, who had distinguished himself on 
many former occasions, was made prisoner. 
The street of St. Engracia, which they 
had thus entered, leads into the Cozo, and 
the corner buildings where it thus termi- 
nated, were on the one hand the convent 
of St. Francisco, and on the other the 
general hospital. Both were stormed and 
set on fire ; the sick and the wounded 
threw themselves from the windows to 
escape the flames, and the horror of the 
scene was aggravated by the maniacs, 
whose voices raving or singing in parox- 
ysms of wilder madness, or crying in vain 
to be set free, were heard amid the con- 
fusion of dreadful sounds. Many fell vic- 
tims to the fire, and some to the indis- 
criminating fury of the assailants. Those 
who escaped were conducted as prisoners 
to the Torrero ; but when their condition 
had been discovered, they were sent back 
on the morrow, to take their chance in 
the siege. After a severe contest and 
dreadful carnage, the French forced their 
way into the Cozo, in the very centre of 
the city, and before the day closed were 
in possession of one half of Zaragoza. 
Lefebvre now believed that he had effected 
his purpose, and required Palafox to sur- 
render, in a note containing only these 
words : " Head-quarters, St. Engracia. 
Capitulation !" The heroic Spaniard im- 
mediately returned this reply : " Head- 
quarters, Zaragoza. War at the knife's 
point ! " 

The contest which was now carried on 
is unexampled in history. One side of 
the Cozo, a street about as wide as Pall- 
mall, was possessed by the French ; and 
in the centre of it then* general, Verdier, 
gave his orders from the Franciscan con- 
vent. The opposite side was maintained 
by the Aragonese, who threw up batteries 
at the openings of the cross streets, within 
a few paces of those which the French 
erected against them. The intervening 
space was presently heaped with dead, 
either slain upon the spot, or thrown out 
from the windows. Next day the ammu- 
nition of the citizens began to fail ; the 
French were expected every moment to 
renew their efforts for completing the con- 
quest, and even this circumstance occa- 
sioned no dismay, nor did any one think 
of capitulation. One cry was heard from 
the people, wherever Palafox rode among 



them, that if powder failed they were 
ready to attack the enemy with their 
knives ; formidable weapons in the hands 
of desperate men. Just before the day 
closed, Don Francisco Palafox, the gene- 
ral's brother, entered the city with a con- 
voy of arms and ammunition, and a rein- 
forcement of three thousand men, com- 
posed of Spanish guards, Swiss, and volun- 
teers of Aragon ; a succour as little ex- 
pected by the Zaragozans, as it had been 
provided against by the enemy. 

The war was now continued from street 
to street, from house to house, and from 
room to room ; pride and indignation ha- 
ving wrought up the French to a pitch of 
obstinate fury, little inferior to the de- 
voted courage of the patriots. During 
the whole siege no man distinguished 
himself more remarkably than the curate 
of one of the parishes, within the walls, 
by name P. Santiago Sass. He was al- 
ways to be seen in the streets, sometimes 
fighting with the most determined bravery 
against the enemies, not of his country 
alone, but of freedom, and of all virtuous 
principles, wherever they were to be found ; 
at other times administering the sacra- 
ment to the dying, and confirming, with 
the authority of faith, that hope which 
gives to death, under such circumstances, 
the joy, the exultation, the triumph, and 
the spirit of martyrdom. Palafox reposed 
the utmost confidence in this brave priest, 
and selected him whenever anything pecu- 
liarly difficult or hazardous was to be done. 
At the head of forty chosen men he suc- 
ceeded in introducing a supply of powder 
into the town, so essentially necessary for 
its defence. 

This most obstinate and murderous con- 
test was continued for eleven successive 
days and nights, more indeed by night 
than by day; for it was almost certain 
death to appear by daylight within reach 
of those houses which were occupied by 
the other party. But under cover of the 
darkness the combatants frequently dashed 
across the street to attack each other's bat- 
teries ; and the battles which began there 
were often carried on into the houses be- 
yond, where they fought from room to 
room, and floor to floor. The hostile bat- 
teries were so near each other that a Spa- 
niard in one place made way under cover 
of the dead bodies, which completely 
filled the space between them, and fast- 
ened a rope to one of the French cannons; 
in the struggle which ensued the rope 
broke, and the Zaragozans lost their prize 

at the very moment when they thought 
themselves sure of it. 

A new horror was added to the dread- 
ful circumstances of war in this ever-me- 
morable siege. In general engagements 
the dead are left upon the field of battle, 
and the survivors remove to clear ground 
and an untainted atmosphere ; but here, 
in Spain, and in the month of August, 
there, where the dead lay, the struggle 
was still carried on, and pestilence was 
dreaded from the enormous accumulation 
of putrifying bodies. Nothing in the whole 
course of the siege so much embarrassed 
Palafox as this evil. The only remedy 
was to tie ropes to the French prisoners, 
and push them forward amid the dead and 
dying, to remove the bodies and bring 
them away for interment. Even for this 
necessary office there was no truce, and it 
would have been certain death to the Ara- 
gonese who should have attempted to per- 
form it ; but the prisoners were in gene- 
ral secured by the pity of their own sol- 
diers, and in this manner the evil was in 
some degree diminished. 

A council of war was held by the Spa- 
niards on the 8th, not for the purpose 
which is too usual in such councils, but 
that their heroic resolution might be com- 
municated with authority to the people. 
It was, that in those quarters of the city 
where the Aragonese still maintained their 
ground, they should continue to defend 
themselves with the same firmness; should 
the enemy at last prevail, they were then 
to retire over the Ebro into the suburbs, 
break down the bridge and defend the 
suburbs till they perished. "When this re- 
solution was made public, it was received 
with the loudest acclamations. But in 
every conflict the citizens now gained 
ground upon the soldiers, winning it inch 
by inch, till the space occupied by the 
enemy, which, on the day of their entrance 
was nearly half the city, was gradually re- 
duced to about an eighth part. Mean- 
time, intelligence of the events in other 
parts of Spain was received by the French, 
all tending to dishearten them ; the sur- 
render of Dupont, the failure of Moncey 
before Valencia, and the news that the 
Junta of that province had dispatched six 
thousand men to join the levies in Ara- 
gon, which were destined to relieve Zara- 
goza. During the night of the 13th, their 
fire was particularly fierce and destruc- 
tive ; after their batteries had ceased, 
flames burst out in many parts of the 
buildings which they had won ; their last 



act was to blow up the church of St. En- 
gracia ; the powder was placed in the sub- 
terranean church, and this remarkable 
place, this monument of fraud and of cre- 
dulity, the splendid theatre wherein so 
many feelings of deep devotion had been 
excited, which so many thousands had 

visited in faith, and from which, unques- Pamplona 

tionably, many had departed with their 
imaginations elevated, their principles en- 
nobled, and their hearts strengthened, 
was laid in ruins. In the morning the 
French columns, to the great surprise of 
the Spaniards, were seen at a distance re- 
treating over the plain, on the road to 

Robert Southey. 


(For Notes of his Life see p. 96.) 


The allies' guns on the rising ground 
above the village answered the fire of the 
French, and ploughed through their co- 
lumns, which were crowding without judg- 
ment towards the bridge, although the 
stream was passable above and below. 
But Beresford observing that Werle's divi- 
sion did not follow closely, was soon con- 
vinced that the principal effort would be 
on the right, and therefore sent Blake 
orders to form a part of the first and all 
the second line of the Spanish army, on 
the broad part of the hills, at right angles 
to their actual front. Then drawing the 
Portuguese infantry of the left wing to 
the centre, he sent one brigade down to 
support Alten, and directed general Hamil- 
ton to hold the remainder in columns of 
battalions, ready to move to any part of 
the field. The thirteenth dragoons were 
posted near the edge of the river above 
the bridge, and meanwhile the second 
division marched to support Blake. The 
horse artillery, the heavy dragoons, and 
the fourth division also took ground to 
the right, and were posted ; the cavalry 
and guns on a small plain behind the 
Aroya, and the fourth division in an ob- 
lique line, about half musket-shot behind 
them. This done, Beresford galloped to 
Blake, for that general had refused to 
change his front, and with great heat told 
colonel Hardinge, the bearer of the order, 
that the real attack was at the village and 
bridge. Beresford had sent again to en- 
treat that he would obey, but this message 
was as fruitless as the former, and when 
the marshal arrived nothing had been 
done. The enemy's columns were, how- 
ever, now beginning to appear on the 
right, and Blake yielding to this evidence, 

proceeded to make the evolution, yet with 
such pedantic slowness, that Beresford, 
impatient of his folly, took the direction 
in person. 

Great was the confusion and the delay 
thus occasioned, and ere the troops could 
be put in order the French were amongst 
them. For scarcely had Godinot engaged 
Alten's brigade, when Werle, leaving only 
a battalion of grenadiers and some squa- 
drons to watch the thirteenth dragoons 
and to connect the attacks, counter- 
marched with the remainder of his divi- 
sion, and rapidly gained the rear of the 
fifth corps as it was mounting the hills on 
the right of the allies. At the same time 
the mass of light cavalry suddenly quitted 
Godinot's column, and crossing the river 
Albuera above the bridge, ascended the 
left bank at a gallop, and sweeping round 
the rear of the fifth corps, joined Latour 
Maubourg, who was already in face of 
Lumley's squadrons. Thus half an hour 
had sufficed to render Beresford's posi- 
tion nearly desperate. Two-thirds of the 
French were in a compact order of battle, 
on a line perpendicular to his right, and 
his army, disordered and composed of dif- 
ferent nations, was still in the difficult act 
of changing its front. It was in vain that 
he endeavoured to form the Spanish line 
sufficiently in advance to give room for 
the second division to support it ; the 
French guns opened, then* infantry threw 
out a heavy musketry, and their cavalry 
outflanking the front and charging here 
and there, put the Spaniards in disorder 
at all points ; in a short time the latter 
gave way, and Soult, thinking the whole 
army was yielding, pushed forward his 
columns, while his reserves also mounted 
the hill, and general Ruty placed all the 
batteries in position. 



At this critical moment general William 
Stewart arrived at the foot of the height 
with colonel Colborne's brigade, which 
formed the head of the second division. 
The colonel seeing the confusion above, 
desired to form in order of battle previous 
to mounting the ascent, but Stewart, 
whose boiling courage overlaid his judg- 
ment, led up without any delay in column 
of companies, and attempted to open out 
his line in succession as the battalions ar- 
rived at the summit. Being under a de- 
structive fire the foremost charged to gain 
room, but a heavy rain prevented any ob- 
ject from being distinctly seen, and four 
regiments of hussars and lancers, which 
had passed the right flank in the obscu- 
rity, came galloping in upon the rear of 
the line at the instant of its developement, 
and slew or took two-thirds of the bri- 
gade. One battalion only (the thirty -first) 
being still in column, escaped the storm 
and maintained its ground, while the 
French horsemen, riding violently over 
everything else, penetrated to all parts. 
In the tumult a lancer fell upon Beresford, 
but the marshal, a man of great strength, 
putting his spear aside cast him from 
his saddle, and a shift of wind blowing 
aside the mist and smoke, the mischief 
was perceived from the plains by general 
Lumley, w T ho sent four squadrons out 
upon the lancers and cut many of them 

During this first unhappy effort of the 
second division, so great was the confusion, 
that the Spanish line continued to fire 
without cessation, although the British 
were before them ; whereupon Beresford, 
finding his exhortations to advance fruit- 
less, seized an ensign and bore him and 
his colours, by main force, to the front, 
yet the troops would not follow, and the 
man went back again on being released. 
In this crisis the weather, which had 
ruined Colborne's brigade, also prevented 
Soult from seeing the whole extent of the 
field of battle, and he still kept his heavy 
columns together. His cavalry, indeed, 
began to hem in that of the allies, but the 
fire of the horse artillery enabled Lumley, 
covered as he was by the bed of the Aroya, 
and supported by the fourth division, to 
check them on the plain, while Colborne 
still maintained the heightswith the thirty- 
first regiment ; the British artillery, under 
major Dickson, was likewise coming fast 
into action, and William Stewart, who had 
escaped the charge of the lancers, was 
again mounting the hill with general 

Houghton's brigade, which he brought on 
with the same vehemence, but instructed 
by his previous misfortune, in a juster 
order of battle. The weather now cleared, 
and a dreadful fire poured into the thick- 
est of the French columns convinced Soult 
that the day was yet to be won. 

Houghton's regiments soon got footing 
on the summit ; Dickson placed the artil- 
lery in line, the remaining brigade of the 
second division came up on the left, and 
two Spanish corps at last moved forward. 
The enemy's infantry then recoiled, yet 
soon recovering, renewed the fight with 
greater violence than before ; the cannon 
on both sides discharged showers of grape 
at half range, and the peals of musketry 
were incessant and often within pistol- 
shot ; but the close formation of the 
French embarrassed their battle, and the 
British line would not yield them one 
inch of ground nor a moment of time to 
open their ranks. Their fighting was, 
however, fierce and dangerous. Stewart 
was twice hurt, colonel Duckworth, of the 
forty-eighth, was slain, and the gallant 
Houghton, who had received many wounds 
without shrinking, fell and died in the act 
of cheering his men. Still the struggle 
continued with unabated fury. Colonel 
Inglis, twenty-two other officers, and more 
than four hundred men out of five hun- 
dred and seventy that had mounted the 
hill, fell in the fifty-seventh alone ; and 
the other regiments were scarcely better 
off, not one-third were standing in any. 
Ammunition failed ; and, as the English 
fire slackened, the enemy established a 
column in advance upon the right flank ; 
the play of Dickson's artillery checked 
them a moment, but again the Polish 
lancers charging, captured six guns. And 
in this desperate crisis, Beresford, who 
had already withdrawn the thirteenth 
dragoons from the banks of the river and 
brought Hamilton's Portuguese into a 
situation to cover a retrograde movement, 
wavered ! destruction stared him in the 
face, his personal resources were exhaust- 
ed, and the unhappy thought of a retreat 
rose in his agitated mind. Yet no order 
to that effect was given, and it was urged 
by some about him that the day might 
still be redeemed with the fourth division. 
While he hesitated, colonel Hardinge 
boldly ordered general Cole to advance, 
and then riding to colonel Abercrombie, 
who commanded the remaining brigade 
of the second division, directed him also 
to push forward into the fight. The die 



being thus cast, Beresford acquiesced, and 
this terrible battle was continued. 

The fourth division had only two bri- 
gades in the field; the one Portuguese, 
under general Harvey, the other com- 
manded by sir W. Myers, and composed 
of the seventh and twenty -third British 
regiments, was called the fuzileer bri- 
gade. General Cole directed the Portu- 
guese to move between Lumley's dragoons 
and the hill, where they were immediately 
charged by some of the French horse- 
men, but beat them off with great loss ; 
meanwhile he led the fuzileers in person 
up the height. 

At this time six guns were in the ene- 
my's possession, the whole of 'Werle's re- 
serves were coming forward to reinforce 
the front column of the French, and the 
remnant of Houghton's brigade could no 
longer maintain its ground ; the field was 
heaped with carcases, the lancers were 
riding furiously about the captured artil- 
lery on the upper part of the hill and on 
the lower slopes, a Spanish and an En- 
glish regiment in mutual error were ex- 
changing volleys ; behind all, general 
Hamilton's Portuguese, in withdrawing 
from the heights above the bridge, ap- 
peared to be in retreat. The conduct of 
a few brave men soon changed this state 
of affairs. Colonel Robert Arbuthnot, 
pushing between the double fire of the 
mistaken troops, arrested that mischief, 
while Cole, with the fuzileers, flanked by 
a battalion of the Lusitanian legion under 
colonel Hawkshawe, mounted the hill, 
dispersed the lancers, recovered the cap- 
tured guns, and appeared on the right of 
Houghton's brigade exactly as Abercrom- 
bie passed it on the left. 

Such a gallant line, issuing from the 
midst of the smoke and rapidly separating 
itself from the confused and broken mul- 
titude, startled the enemy's heavy masses, 
which were increasing and pressing on- 
wards as to an assured victory : they 
wavered, hesitated, and then vomiting 
forth a storm of fire, hastily endeavoured 
to enlarge their front, while a fearful dis- 
charge of grape from all their artillery 
whistled through the British ranks. Myers 
was killed ; Cole and the three colonels, 
Ellis, Blakeney and Hawkshawe, fell 
wounded, and the fuzileer battalions, 
struck by the iron tempest, reeled and 
staggered like sinking ships. Suddenly 
and sternly recovering, they closed on 
their terrible enemies, and then was seen 
with what a strength and majesty the 

British soldier fights. In vain did Soult, 
by voice and gesture, animate his French- 
men ; in vain did the hardiest veterans, 
extricating themselves from the crowded 
columns, sacrifice their lives to gain time 
for the mass to open out on such a fair 
field ; in vain did the mass itself bear up, 
and fiercely striving, fire indiscriminately 
upon friends and foes, while the horsemen 
hovering on the flank threatened to charge 
the advancing line. Nothing coidd stop 
that astonishing infantry ; no sudden burst 
of undisciplined valour, no nervous en- 
thusiasm, weakened the stabihty of their 
order; their flashing eyes were bent on 
the dark columns in their front ; their 
measured tread shook the ground ; their 
dreadful volleys swept away the head of 
every formation ; their deafening shouts 
overpowered the dissonant cries that 
broke from all parts of the tumultuous 
crowd, as foot by foot and with a horrid 
carnage it was driven by the incessant 
rigour of the attack to the furthest edge 
of the hill. In vain did the French re- 
serves, joining with the struggling multi- 
tude, endeavour to sustain the fight ; their 
efforts only increased the irremediable 
confusion, and the mighty mass giving 
way like a loosened cliff, went headlong 
down the ascent. The rain flowed after 
in streams discoloured with blood, and 
fifteen hundred unwounded men, the rem- 
nant of six thousand unconquerable Bri- 
tish soldiers, stood triumphant on the fatal 
hill ! Colonel Napier. 


The night was dry but clouded, the air 
thick with watery exhalations from the 
rivers, the ramparts and the trenches un- 
usually still ; yet a low murmur pervaded 
the latter, and in the former, lights were 
seen to flit here and there, while the deep 
voices of the sentinels at times proclaimed 
that all was well in Badajos. The French, 
confiding in Phillipon's direful skill, 
watched, from their lofty station, the ap- 
proach of enemies, whom they had twice 
before baffled, and now hoped to drive a 
third time blasted and ruined from the 
walls; the British, standing in deep co- 
lumns, were as eager to meet that fiery 
destruction as the others were to pour it 
down ; and both were alike terrible for 
their strength, their discipline, and the 
passions awakened in their resolute hearts. 




Former failures there were to avenge, 
and on either side such leaders as left no 
excuse for weakness in the hour of trial, 
and the possession of Badajos was become 
a point of honour personal with the sol- 
diers of each nation. But the strong de- 
sire for glory was, in the British, dashed 
with a hatred of the citizens on an old 
grudge ; and recent toil and hardship, 
with much spilling of blood, had made 
many incredibly savage ; for these things 
render the noble-minded indeed averse to 
cruelty, but harden the vulgar spirit. 
Numbers also, like Caesar's centurion, 
who could not forget the plunder of Ava- 
ricum, were heated with the recollection 
of Ciudad Rodrigo, and thirsted for spoil. 
Thus every spirit found a cause of excite- 
ment, the wondrous power of discipline 
bound the whole together as with a band 
of iron, and, in the pride of arms, none 
doubted their might to bear down every ob- 
stacle that man could oppose to their fury. 

At ten o'clock the castle, the San 
Roque, the breaches, the Pardaleras, the 
distant bastion of San Vincente, and the 
bridge-head on the other side of the Gua- 
diana, were to have been simultaneously 
assailed, and it was hoped that the strength 
of the enemy would shrivel within that 
fiery girdle. But many are the disappoint- 
ments of war. An unforeseen accident 
delayed the attack of the fifth division ; 
and a lighted carcass, thrown from the 
castle, falling close to where the men of 
the third division were drawn up, dis- 
covered their array, and obliged them to 
anticipate the signal by half an hour. 
Then, everything being suddenly dis- 
turbed, the double columns of the fourth 
and light divisions also moved silently 
and swiftly against the breaches, and the 
guard of the trenches, rushing forward 
with a shout, encompassed the San Roque 
with fire, and broke in so violently that 
scarcely any resistance was made. 

But a sudden blaze of light and the 
rattling of musketry indicated the com- 
mencement of a most vehement combat 
at the castle. There general Kempt, — 
for Picton, hurt by a fall in the camp, 
and expecting no change in the hour, was 
not present, — there general Kempt, I say, 
led the third division ; he had passed the 
Rivillas in single files by a narrow bridge, 
under a terrible musketry, and then re- 
forming and running up the rugged hill, 
had reached the foot of the castle when 
he fell severely wounded, and being car- 
ried back to the trenches, met Picton, 

who hastened forward to take the com- 
mand. Meanwhile his troops spreading 
along the front reared their heavy ladders, 
some against the lofty castle, some against 
the adjoining front on the left, and with 
incredible courage ascended amidst show- 
ers of heavy stones, logs of wood, and 
bursting shells rolled off the parapet, 
while from the flanks the enemy plied his 
musketry with a fearful rapidity, and in 
front, with pikes and bayonets, stabbed 
the leading assailants or pushed the lad- 
ders from the walls ; and all this attended 
with deafening shouts, and the crash of 
breaking ladders, and the shrieks of 
crushed soldiers answering to the sullen 
stroke of the falling weights. 

Still, swarming round the remaining 
ladders, these undaunted veterans strove 
who should first climb, until all being 
overturned, the French shouted victory, 
and the British baffled, but untamed, fell 
back a few paces, and took shelter under 
the rugged edge of the hill. Here, when 
the broken ranks were somewhat re- 
formed, the heroic colonel Ridge, spring- 
ing forward, called, with a stentorian 
voice, on his men to follow, and, seizing 
a ladder, once more raised it against the 
castle, yet to the right of the former at- 
tack, where the wall was lower, and an 
embrasure offered some facility. A second 
ladder was soon placed alongside of the 
first, by the grenadier officer Canch, and 
the next instant he and Ridge were on 
the rampart ; the shouting troops pressed 
after them, the garrison amazed, and in a 
manner surprised, were driven fighting 
through the double gate into the town, 
and the castle was won. A reinforce- 
ment, sent from the French reserve, then 
came up, a sharp action followed, both 
sides fired through the gate, and the 
enemy retired, but Ridge fell, and no 
man died that night with more glory ; yet 
many died, and there was much glory. 

During these events the tumult at the 
breaches was such as if the very earth 
had been rent asunder, and its central 
fires were bursting upwards uncontrolled. 
The two divisions had reached the glacis, 
just as the firing at the castle had com- 
menced, and the flash of a single musket 
discharged from the covered way as a 
signal, showed them that the French were 
ready ; yet no stir was heard, and dark- 
ness covered the breaches. Some hay- 
packs were then thrown, some ladders 
were placed, and the forlorn hopes and 
storming parties of the light division, 



about five hundred in all, had descended 
into the ditch without opposition, when a 
bright flame shooting upwards, displayed 
all the terrors of the scene. The ram- 
parts, crowded with dark figures and glit- 
tering arms, were seen on the one side, 
and on the other, the red columns of the 
British, deep and broad, were coming on 
like streams of burning lava ; it was the 
touch of the magician's wand, for a crash 
of thunder followed, and with incredible 
violence the storming parties were dashed 
to pieces by the explosion of hundreds of 
shells and powder -barrels. 

For an instant the light division stood 
on the brink of the ditch, amazed at the 
terrific sight ; then, with a shout that 
matched even the sound of the explosion, 
flew down the ladders, or disdaining their 
aid, leaped, reckless of the depth, into 
the gidph below ; and nearly at the same 
moment, amidst a blaze of musketry that 
dazzled the eyes, the fourth division came 
running in and descended with a like fury. 
There were, however, only five ladders for 
both columns, which were close together, 
and a deep cut made in the bottom of the 
ditch, as far as the counter-guard of the 
Trinidad, was filled with water from the 
inundation: into this watery snare the head 
of the fourth division fell, and it is said that 
above a hundred of the fuzileers, the men 
of Albuera, were there smothered. Those 
who followed, checked not, but as if such 
a disaster had been expected, turned to 
the left, and thus came upon the face of 
the unfinished ravelin, which, being rough 
and broken, was mistaken for the breach, 
and instantly covered with men ; yet a 
wide and deep chasm was still between 
them and the ramparts, from whence came 
a deadly fire wasting their ranks. Thus 
baffled, they also commenced a rapid dis- 
charge of musketry, and disorder ensued ; 
for the men of the light division, whose 
conducting engineer had been disabled 
early, and whose flank was confined by 
an unfinished ditch intended to cut off 
the bastion of Santa Maria, rushed to- 
wards the breaches of the curtain and 
the Trinidad, which were indeed before 
them, but which the fourth division were 
destined to storm. 

Great was the confusion, for now the 
ravelin was quite crowded with men of 
both divisions ; and while some continued 
to fire, others jumped down and ran to- 
wards the breach ; many also passed be- 
tween the ravelin and the counter-guard 
of the Trinidad, the two divisions got 

mixed, and the reserves, which shoidd 
have remained at the quarries, also came 
pouring in, until the ditch was quite filled, 
the rear still crowding forward, and all 
cheering vehemently. The enemy's shouts 
also were loud and terrible, and the burst- 
ing of shells and of grenades, the roaring 
of the guns from the flanks, answered by 
the iron howitzers from the battery of the 
parallel, the heavy roll and horrid ex- 
plosion of the powder-barrels, the whiz- 
zing flight of the blazing splinters, the 
loud exhortations of the officers, and the 
continual clatter of the muskets, made a 
maddening din. 

Now a multitude bounded up the great 
breach as if driven by a whirlwind, but 
across the top glittered a range of sword- 
blades, sharp-pointed, keen-edged on both 
sides, and firmly fixed in ponderous beams, 
which were chained together and set deep 
in the ruins ; and for ten feet in front the 
ascent was covered with loose planks, 
studded with sharp iron points, on which 
the feet of the foremost being set, the 
planks moved, and the unhappy soldiers, 
falling forwards on the spikes, rolled down 
upon the ranks behind. Then the French- 
men, shouting at the success of their 
stratagem, and leaping forward, plied their 
shot with terrible rapidity, for every man 
had several muskets ; and each musket, in 
addition to its ordinary charge, contained 
a small cylinder of wood stuck full of 
leaden slugs, which scattered like hail 
when they were discharged. 

Again the assailants rushed up the 
breaches, and again the sword-blades, im- 
moveable and impassable, stopped their 
charge, and the hissing shells and thun- 
dering powder-barrels exploded uncea- 
singly. Hundreds of men had fallen, and 
hundreds more were dropping, but still 
the heroic officers called aloud for new 
trials, and sometimes followed by many, 
sometimes by a few, ascended the ruins ; 
and so furious were the men themselves, 
that in one of these charges the rear 
strove to push the foremost on to the 
sword-blades, willing even to make a 
bridge of their writhing bodies, but the 
others frustrated the attempt by dropping 
down ; and men fell so fast from the shot, 
that it was hard to know who went down 
j voluntarily, who were stricken ; and many 
stooped unhurt that never rose again. 
\ Vain also would it have been to break 
j through the sword-blades, for the trench 
I and parapet behind the breach were 
' finished, and the assailants, crowded into 




even a narrower space than the ditch 
was, would still have been separated from 
their enemies, and the slaughter would 
have continued. 

At the beginning of this dreadful con- 
flict, colonel Andrew Barnard had with 
prodigious efforts separated his division 
from the other, and preserved some de- 
gree of military array, but now the tumult 
was such that no command could be heard 
distinctly, except by those close at hand, 
and the mutilated carcasses heaped on 
each other, and the wounded, struggling 
to avoid being trampled upon, broke the 
formations ; order was impossible ! Yet 
officers of all stations, followed more or 
less numerously by the men, were seen to 
start out as if struck by a sudden madness, 
and rush into the breach, which yawning 
and glittering with steel, seemed like the 
mouth of some huge dragon belching 
forth smoke and flame. In one of these 
attempts colonel Macleod of the forty- 
third, a young man whose feeble body 
would have been quite unfit for war, if it 
had not been sustained by an unconquer- 
able spirit, was killed. Wherever his 
voice was heard there his soldiers ga- 
thered, and with such a strong resolution 
did he lead them up the fatal ruins, that 
when one behind him in falling plunged 
a bayonet into his back, he complained 
not, and continuing his course, was shot 
dead within a yard of the sword-blades. 
But there was no want of gallant leaders 
or desperate followers. 

Two hours spent in these vain efforts 
convinced the soldiers that the breach of 
the Trinidad was impregnable ; and as 
the opening in the curtain, although less 
strong, was retired, and the approach to 
it impeded by deep holes and cuts made 
in the ditch, the troops did not much 
notice it after the partial failure of one 
attack which had been made early. Ga- 
thering in dark groups and leaning on 
their muskets, they looked up with sullen 
desperation at the Trinidad, while the 
enemy stepping out on the ramparts, and 
aiming their shots by the light of the fire- 
balls which they threw over, asked, as 
their victims fell, " Why they did not come 
into Badajos ?" 

In this dreadful situation, while the 
dead were lying in heaps and others con- 
tinually falling, the wounded crawling 
about to get some shelter from the mer- 
ciless fire above, and withal a sickening 
stench from the burnt flesh of the slain, 
captain Nicholas of the engineers was ob- 

served by Mr. Shaw of the forty-third, 
making incredible efforts to force his way 
with a few men into the Santa Maria 
bastion. Shaw having collected about 
fifty soldiers of all regiments, joined him, 
and although there was a deep cut along 
the foot of this breach also, it was in- 
stantly passed, and these two young offi- 
cers, at the head of their gallant band, 
rushed up the slope of the ruins ; but 
when they had gained two-thirds of the 
ascent, a concentrated fire of musketry 
and grape dashed nearly the whole dead 
to the earth ! Nicholas was mortally 
wounded, and the intrepid Shaw stood 
alone ! after this no further effort was 
made at any point, and the troops re- 
mained passive, but unflinching, beneath 
the enemy's shot, which streamed with- 
out intermission ; for, of the riflemen on 
the glacis, many leaping early into the 
ditch had joined in the assault, and the 
rest raked by a cross fire of grape from 
the distant bastions, baffled in their aim 
by the smoke and flames from the explo- 
sions, and too few in number, had en- 
tirely failed to quell the French musketry. 

About midnight, when two thousand 
brave men had fallen, Wellington, who 
was on a height close to the quarries, 
sent orders for the remainder to retire 
and re-form for a second assault ; for he 
had just then heard that the castle was 
taken, and thinking the enemy would 
still hold out in the town, was resolved 
to assail the breaches again. This retreat 
from the ditch was, however, not effected 
without further carnage and confusion, 
for the French fire never slackened, and a 
cry arose that the enemy were making a 
sally from the distant flanks, which caused 
a rush towards the ladders ; then the 
groans and lamentations of the wounded, 
who could not move and expected to be 
slain, increased; many officers who had 
not heard of the order, endeavoured to 
stop the soldiers from going back, and 
some would even have removed the lad- 
ders but were unable to break the crowd. 

All this time the third division was 
lying close in the castle, and either from 
a fear of risking the loss of a point which 
ensured the capture of the place, or that 
the egress was too difficult, made no at- 
tempt to drive away the enemy from the 
breaches. On the other side, however, 
the fifth division had commenced the false 
attack on the Pardaleras, and on the right 
of the Guadiana, the Portuguese were 
sharply engaged at the bridge ; thus the 



town was girdled with fire, for general 
Walker's brigade having passed on du- 
ring the feint on the Pardaleras, was esca- 
lading the distant bastion of San Yin- 
eente. His troops had advanced along 
the banks of the river, and reached the 
French guard-house, at the barrier-gate, 
undiscovered, for the ripple of the waters 
smothered the sound of their footsteps ; 
but just then the explosion at the breaches 
took place, the moon shone out, and the 
French sentinels, discovering the columns, 
fired. The British troops immediately 
springing forward under a sharp musketry, 
began to hew down the wooden barrier at 
the covered way, while the Portuguese, 
being panic-stricken, threw down the 
scaling-ladders. Nevertheless the others 
snatched them up again, and forciug the 
barrier, jumped into the ditch ; but the 
guiding engineer officer was killed, and 
there was a cunette, which embarrassed 
the column, and when the foremost men 
succeeded in rearing the ladders, the 
latter were found too short, for the walls 
were generally above thirty feet high. 
Meanwhile the fire of the French was 
deadly, a small mine was sprung beneath 
the soldiers' feet, beams of wood and live 
shells were rolled over on their heads, 
showers of grape from the flank swept the 
ditch, and man after man dropped dead 
from the ladders. 

Fortunately some of the defenders ha- 
ving been called away to aid in recovering 
the castle, the ramparts were not entirely 
manned, and the assailants having disco- 
vered a corner of the bastion where the 
scarp was only twenty feet high, placed 
three ladders there under an embrasure 
which had no gun and w r as only stopped 
with a gabion. Some men got up, but 
with difficulty, for the ladders were still 
too short, and the first man who gained 
the top was pushed up by his comrades 
and then drew others after him, until 
many had gained the summit ; and though 
the French shot heavily against them, 
from both flanks and from a house in 
front, they thickened and could not be 
driven back ; half the fourth regiment 
entered the town itself to dislodge the 
enemy from the houses, while the others 
pushed along the rampart towards the 
breach, and by dint of hard fighting suc- 
cessively won three bastions. 

In the last of these combats, general 
Walker leaping forward, sword in hand, 
at the moment when one of the enemies' 
cannoneers w r as discharging a gun, fell 

covered with so many wounds that it was 
wonderful how he could survive, and 
some of the soldiers immediately after, 
perceiving a lighted match on the ground, 
cried out a mine ! At that word, such is 
the power of imagination, those troops 
whom neither the strong barrier, nor the 
deep ditch, nor the high walls, nor the 
deadly fire of the enemy could stop, stag- 
gered back appalled by a chimera of their 
own raising, and in this disorder a French 
reserve, under general Yiellande, drove 
on them with a firm and rapid charge, 
and pitching some men over the walls, 
and killing others outright, again cleansed 
the ramparts even to the San Vincente. 
There however Leith had placed colonel 
Nugent with a battalion of the thirty- 
eighth as a reserve, and when the French 
came up, shouting and slaying all before 
them, this battalion, about two hundred 
strong, arose, and with one close volley 
destroyed them. 

Then the panic ceased, the soldiers 
rallied, and in compact order once more 
charged along the walls towards the 
breaches, but the French, although turned 
on both flanks and abandoned by fortune, 
did not yet yield ; and meanwhile the de- 
tachment of the fourth regiment which 
had entered the town when the San Yin- 
cente was first carried, w r as strangely situ- 
ated, for the streets were empty and 
brilliantly illuminated, and no person was 
seen ! yet a low buz and whisper were 
heard around, lattices were now and then 
gently opened, and from time to time 
shots were fired from underneath the 
doors of the houses by the Spaniards. 
However, the troops with bugles sound- 
ing, advanced towards the great square 
of the town, and in their progress cap- 
tured several mules going with ammu- 
nition to the breaches ; but the square 
itself was as empty and silent as the 
streets, and the houses as bright with 
lamps ; a terrible enchantment seemed to 
be in operation, for they saw nothing but 
light, and heard only the low whispers 
close around them, while the tumult at 
the breaches was like the crashing thun- 

There indeed the fight was still plainly 
raging, and hence, quitting the square, 
they attempted to take the garrison in j 
reverse, by attacking the ramparts from 
the town side, but they were received 
with a rolling musketry, driven back 
with loss, and resumed then- movement 
through the streets. At last the breaches 






were abandoned by the French, other 
parties entered the place, desultory com- 
bats took place in various parts, and 
finally general Viellande, and Phillipon 
who was wounded, seeing all ruined, 
passed the bridge with a few hundred sol- 
diers, and entered San Christoval, where 
they all surrendered early the next morn- 
ing upon summons to lord Fitzroy So- 
merset, who had with great readiness 
pushed through the town to the draw- 
bridge ere they had time to organize fur- 
ther resistance. But even in the moment 
of ruin the night before, the noble govern- 
or had sent some horsemen out from the 
fort to carry the news to Soult's army, 
and they reached him in time to prevent 
a greater misfortune. 

Now commenced that wild and despe- 
rate wickedness which tarnished the lustre 
of the soldier's heroism. All indeed were 
not alike, for hundreds risked and many 
lost their lives in striving to stop the 
violence, but the madness generally pre- 
vailed, and as the worst men were leaders 
here, all the dreadful passions of human 
nature were displayed. Shameless rapa- 
city, brutal intemperance, savage lust, 
cruelty and murder, shrieks and piteous 
lamentations, groans, shouts, impreca- 
tions, the hissing of fires bursting from 
the houses, the crashing of doors and win- 
dows, and the reports of muskets used in 
violence, resounded for two days and 
nights in the streets of Badajos ! on the 
third, when the city was sacked, when 
the soldiers were exhausted by their own 
excesses, the tumult rather subsided than 
was quelled. The wounded men were 
then looked to, the dead disposed of ! 

Five thousand men and officers fell 
during this siege, and of these, including 
seven hundred Portuguese, three thousand 
five hundred had been stricken in the 
assault, sixty officers and more than seven 
hundred men being slain on the spot. 
The five generals, Kempt, Harvey, Bowes, 
Colville, and Picton were wounded, the 
first three severely; about six hundred 
men and officers fell in the escalade of 
San Vincente, as many at the castle, and 
more than two thousand at the breaches, 
each division there losing twelve hundred ! 
And how deadly the strife was at that 
point, maybe gathered from this, the for- 
ty-third and fifty-second regiment of the 
light division alone lost more men than 
the seven regiments of the third division 
engaged at the castle ! 

Let any man picture to himself this 

frightful carnage taking place in a space 
of less than a hundred square yards. Let 
him consider that the slain died not all 
suddenly, nor by one manner of death ; 
that some perished by steel, some by shot, 
some by water ; that some were crushed 
and mangled by heavy weights, some 
trampled upon, some dashed to atoms by 
the fiery explosions ; that for hours this 
destruction was endured without shrink- 
ing, and that the town was won at last ; 
let any man consider this, and he must 
admit that a British army bears with it 
an awful power. And false would it be 
to say that the French were feeble men, 
for the garrison stood and fought man- 
fully and with good discipline, behaving 
worthily. Shame there was none on any 
side. Yet who shall do justice to the 
bravery of the soldiers ? the noble emu- 
lation of the officers ? Who shall measure 
out the glory of Ridge, of Macleod, of 
Nicholas, or of O'Hare of the ninety-fifth, 
who perished on the breach at the head 
of the stormers, and with him nearly all 
the volunteers for that desperate service ? 
Who shall describe the springing valour 
of that Portuguese grenadier who was 
killed the foremost man at the Santa 
Maria ? or the martial fury of that despe- 
rate soldier of the ninety-fifth, who in his 
resolution to win, thrust himself beneath 
the chained sword-blades, and there suf- 
fered the enemy to dash his head to 
pieces with the ends of their muskets? 
Who can sufficiently honour the intre- 
pidity of Walker, of Shaw, of Canch, or 
the resolution of Ferguson of the forty- 
third, who having in former assaults re- 
ceived two deep wounds, was here, with 
his hurts still open, leading the stormers 
of his regiment, the third time a volun- 
teer, and the third time wounded ! Nor 
would I be understood to select these as 
pre-eminent ; many and signal were the 
other examples of unbounded devotion, 
some known, some that will never be 
known ; for in such a tumult much passed 
unobserved, and often the observers fell 
themselves ere they could bear testimony 
to what they saw ; but no age, no nation 
ever sent forth braver troops to battle 
than those who stormed Badajos. 

When the extent of the night's havoc 
was made known to lord Wellington, the 
firmness of his nature gave way for a 
moment, and the pride of conquest yielded 
to a passionate burst of grief for the loss 
of his gallant soldiers. Colonel Napier. 




an accomplished courtier, a gallant soldier, an enterprising navigator, a scholar, poet, 
historian and philosopher, whose life Gibbon for some time fixed upon as the subject 
of the great historical work which he meditated, was born in the year 1552, at a farm 
called Hayes, in the parish of Budleigh in Devonshire, and, about the year 1568, was 
gent to Oriel College, Oxford. He left Oxford in the following year, and fought in 
France, in the Netherlands and in Ireland. About 1581 he gained the favour of 
Queen Elizabeth at the expense of his cloak which he threw at her feet over a 
muddy piece of road, and followed up the gentle homage by writing on a glass win- 
dow obvious to her eye, " Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall ;" the queen under- 
wrote, " If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all ;" and with such encouragement he 
became a courtier. In 1584, Elizabeth having granted him a patent giving power to 
discover and subdue foreign and heathen lands not in the possession of any Christian 
prince, nor inhabited by any Christian people, he sailed to North America and seized 
the territory, now one of the United States, which was named Virginia in compliment 
to the maiden sovereign. In 1588 he was one of the destroyers of the Spanish Ar- 
mada. In 1590 he brought Edmund Spenser the poet from Ireland, and introduced 
him into the queen's favour. In 1594 Elizabeth gave him the castle and manor of 
Sherborne in Dorsetshire, and there he laid the plan of the voyage which he made in 
1 595 to Guiana, in which he hoped to find the fabulous golden country, El Dorado. 
In 1596, being one of the commanders of the expedition against Cadiz, he bore a 
chief part in the destruction of that city; and in 1600 he was made governor of 

He had now reached the summit of his fortune ; and it would have been happy 
for him if he had cast off the factions of the court, and contented his ambition 
with the government of as beautiful an island, and as good, and kind, and brave 
and loyal a people as heaven ever favoured ; but it was to be otherwise. In 
1603 his royal mistress died, and with her his prosperity. Robert Cecil, after- 
wards earl of Salisbury, a son of Lord Burleigh, had been, during the queen's life, in 
secret correspondence with her successor, James I. : all power was now placed in his 
hands, and Raleigh was in disgrace at court. The duke of Sully, from France, and 
the count d'Aremberg, from the archduke Albert of the Netherlands brother-in-law 
of Philip III. of Spain, were in London, ambassadors from then* courts, seeking peace 


and alliance with England. Cecil preferred France, and Raleigh plotted with d'Arem- 
berg, who promised him 8000 crowns for his help toward a peace between England 
and Spain. Whether the money was to be spent in some scheme to remove Cecil and 
his friends from power, or in an attempt to set aside the king in favour of his first 
cousin, Arabella Stuart, is uncertain. Some such plot was on foot, and there is little 
doubt that Raleigh was privy to it. This was called " the main," and there was joined 
with it " the bye," plot of some inferior conspirators to seize the king's person. Cecil 
had notice of what was passing, and Raleigh and lord Cobham were committed to the 
Tower on a charge of high treason. Raleigh was tried at Winchester in 1603. None 
but hearsay evidence was given against him, except his own admission of the promise 
of 8000 crowns made by d'Aremberg, and some proof that he had proposed to pro- 
cure a yearly pension of ^£1500 for giving intelligence to Spain. He demanded that 
lord Cobham, whose deposition w r as read as evidence, should be produced ; but the 
judges declared that he had no law for his claim to meet his accuser face to face, 
adding, " God forbid any man should accuse himself upon his oath," and adjudged 
that lord Cobham's examination and confession might be read as proof against 
Raleigh. History does not perhaps give an instance of cowardly railing and insolence 
at the bar to equal that of sir Edward Coke, who was Attorney-general on this trial. 

Raleigh. To whom speak you this ? you tell me news I never heard of. 

Coke. Oh, Sir, do I ? I will prove you the notoriousest traitor that ever came to 
the bar. 

Raleigh. Your words cannot condemn me ; my innocency is my defence. 

Coke. Nay, I will prove all ; thou art a monster ; thou hast an English face but a 
Spanish heart. 

Raleigh. Let me answer for myself. 

Coke. Thou shalt not. 

Raleigh. It concerneth my life. 

Coke. Oh ! do I touch you. 


Coke. I think you meant to make Arabella a titular queen, of whose title I will 
speak nothing ; but sure you meant to make her a stale. Ah ! good lady, you could 
mean her no good. 

Raleigh. You tell me news, Mr. Attorney. 

Coke, Oh, Sir ! I am the more large, because I know with whom I deal ; for we 
have to deal to-day with a man of wit. 

Raleigh. Did I ever speak with this lady ? 

Coke. T will track you out before I have done. Englishmen will not be led by per- 
suasion of words, but they must have books to persuade. 

Raleigh. The book was written by a man of your profession, Mr. Attorney. 

Coke. I would not have you impatient. 

Raleigh. Methinks you fall out with yourself ; I say nothing. 


Raleigh. I will wash my hands of the indictment, and die a true man to the king. 

Coke. You are the absolutest traitor that ever was. 

Raleigh. Your phrases will not prove it, Mr. Attorney. If my lord Cobham be a 
traitor, what is that to me ? 

Coke. All that he did was by thy instigation, thou viper ; for I thou thee, thou 

Raleigh. It becometh not a man of quality and virtue to call me so ; but I take 
comfort in it, it is all you can do. 



Coke. Have I angered you ? 
Raleigh. I am in no case to be angry. 

Coke. Thou hast a Spanish heart, and thyself art a spider of hell. 

Coke. Thou art the most vile and execrable traitor that ever lived. 

Raleigh. You speak indiscreetly, barbarously and uncivilly. 

Coke. I want words sufficient to express thy viperous treason. 

Raleigh. I think you want words, indeed, for you have spoken one thing half-a- 
dozen times. 

Coke. Thou art an odious fellow ; thy name is hateful to all the realm of England 
for thy pride. 

Raleigh. It will go near to prove a measuring cast between you and me, Mr. At- 

Raleigh was found guilty, and it was fit retribution. Only three years before, he 
had given hearsay evidence against the earl of Essex, and, after the earl was con- 
demned, had written to the same Cecil, who now sate one of his judges, urging him 
not to show mercy. He was sent to the Tower, where he remained for thirteen 
years. During his imprisonment he wrote a History of the World, in which he is 
said to have been assisted by Ben Jonson and others. In March 1616 he was re- 
leased, and received a commission to take possession of an imaginary gold mine in 
Guiana ; he sailed, attacked and burnt a Spanish town, returned unsuccessful, and 
was betrayed into the hands of the king by Stukely his cousin. Gondomar, the am- 
bassador of the king of Spain, with whom England was then at peace, complained 
loudly of the outrage upon his master's dominions, and Raleigh was doomed to die 
upon the sentence passed upon him in 1603. He showed undaunted courage on the 
scaffold ; touching the edge of the axe, he said to the sheriff, " This is a sharp medi- 
cine, but it is a physician that will cure all diseases." He was executed in Old 
Palace-yard, Westminster, on the 29th of October 1618, and was buried in St. Mar- 
garet's Church. 

He wrote much and on various subjects. His History of the World, from which 
the extracts which follow are taken, begins with the creation and ends with the 
triumph of iEmilius Paulus, after the second Macedonian war; illustrations from 
modern history, and moral and political reflections are woven into the narrative. 
Raleigh had hewn out, he says, a second and a third volume, but was discouraged by 
the death of that glorious prince (Henry, the eldest son of James I.), to whom they 
were directed. The part which he did publish is a work of deep research, written in 
a pure and noble style. 

- Another extract from the History of the World will be found under the title of 
Philosophy and Policy, and some passages from Raleigh's Account of the first 
Voyage to Guiana are placed under the head of Voyages and Travels. 


With the supreme rule and kingly au- 
thority began also other degrees and dif- 
ferences among subjects ; for princes made 
election of others by the same rule by 
which themselves were chosen, unto whom 
they gave place, trust and power. From 
which employments and offices sprung 
those titles and those degrees of honour 

which have continued from age to age to 
these days. But this nobility, or dif- 
ference from the vulgar, was not in the 
beginning given to the succession of 
blood but to succession of virtue. Though 
at length it was sufficient for those whose 
parents were advanced to be known for 
the sons of such fathers, and so there 
needed then no endeavour of well-doing 
j at all, or any contention for them to excel, 



upon whom glory or worldly nobility ne- 
cessarily descended : yet hereof had nobi- 
lity denomination in the beginning, that 
such as excelled others in virtue were so 
called. But after such time as the de- 
served honour of the father was given in 
reward to his posterity, St. Jerome judged 
of the succession in this manner : " I see 
no other thing to be affected in nobility, 
than that noblemen are by a kind of ne- 
cessity bound not to degenerate from the 
virtue of their ancestors." For if nobility 
be " virtue and ancient riches," then to 
exceed in all those things which are extra 
hominem, as riches, power, glory and the 
like, do no otherwise define nobility than 
the word animal alone doth define a 
reasonable man. Or if honour, according 
to L. Vives, be a witness of virtue and 
well-doing; and nobility, after Plutarch, 
the continuance of virtue in a race or 
lineage, then are those in whom virtue is 
extinguished but like unto painted and 
printed papers, which ignorant men wor- 
ship instead of Christ, our lady, and 
other saints ; men, in whom there re- 
main but the dregs and vices of ancient 
virtue ; flowers and herbs, which, by 
change of soil and want of manuring, 
are turned to weeds. For what is found 
praiseworthy in those waters which had 
their beginning out of pure fountains, if 
in all the rest of their course they run 
foul, filthy and defiled ? "Out of fruitful 
ground ariseth sometimes poisoning hen- 
bane, and out of barren soil precious 
gold." For as all things consist of matter 
and form, so doth Charron (in his Chap- 
ter of Nobility) call the race and lineage 
but the matter of nobility ; the form 
(which gives life and perfect being) he 
maketh to be virtue and quality, profit- 
able to the commonwealth. For he is 
truly and entirely noble who maketh a 
singular profession of public virtue, ser- 
ving his prince and country, and being de- 
scended of parents and ancestors that 
have done the like. And although that 
nobility, which the same author calleth 
personal (the same which ourselves ac- 
quire by our virtue and well-deservings), 
cannot be balanced with that which is 
both natural by descent and also per- 
sonal ; yet if virtue be wanting to the 
natural, then is the personal and ac- 
quired nobility by many degrees to be 
preferred : for, saith Charron, this ho- 
nour, to wit, by descent, may light upon 
such an one as in his own nature is a 
true villain. There is also a third no- 

bility, which he calleth nobility in parch- 
ment, bought with silver or favour ; and 
these be indeed but honours of affection, 
which kings, with the change of their 
fancies, wish they knew well how to wipe 
off again. But surely, if we had as much 
sense of our degenerating in worthiness, 
as we have of vanity in deriving ourselves 
of such and such parents, we should 
rather know such nobility (without virtue) 
to be shame and dishonour, than noble- 
ness and glory to vaunt thereof. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 


If we seek a reason of the succession 
and continuance of boundless ambition in 
mortal men, we may add, that the kings 
| and princes of the world have always laid 
before them the actions, but not the ends, 
of those great ones which preceded them. 
They are always transported with the 
glory of the one, but they never mind the 
misery of the other, till they find the ex- 
perience in themselves. They neglect the 
advice of God while they enjoy life, or 
hope it, but they follow the counsel of 
death upon his first approach. It is he 
that puts into man all the wisdom of the 
world without speaking a word, which 
God, with all the words of his law, pro- 
mises, or threats, doth not infuse. Death, 
which hateth and destroyeth man, is be- 
lieved; God, which hath made him and 
loves him, is always deferred : " I have 
considered," saith Solomon, " all the 
works that are under the sun, and, be- 
hold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit ;" 
but who believes it, till death tells it us ? 
It was death, which, opening the con- 
science of Charles V., made him enjoin 
his son Philip to restore Navarre, and 
king Francis I. of France to command 
that justice should be done upon the 
murderers of the protest ants in Merindol 
and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. 
It is therefore death alone that can sud- 
denly make man to know himself. He 
tells the proud and insolent that they are 
but abjects, and humbles them at the in- 
stant, makes them cry, complain and re- 
pent, yea, even to hate their forepassed 
happiness. He takes the account of the 
rich and proves him a beggar, a naked 
beggar, which hath interest in nothing 
but in the gravel that fills his mouth. He 
holds a glass before the eyes of the most 


beautiful, and makes them see therein 
their deformity and rottenness, and they 
acknowledge it 

tered, thou only hast cast out of the world 
and despised ; thou hast drawn together 
all the far-stretched greatness, all the 

eloquent, just and mighty death ! pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and 
whom none could advise, thou hast per- covered it all over with these two narrow 
suaded; what none hath dared, thou hast i words, hie j ace t ! Sir Walter Raleigh. 
done ; and whom all the world hath flat- | 


was born in March 1554, at Heavitree, near Exeter. In his boyhood he was remark- 
able for a quiet, modest, inquiring temper, and was a dutiful and affectionate child to 
his mother, often saying he loved her so dearly that he would endeavour to be good 
even as much for hers as for his own sake. In the year 1567, by the charitable help 
of bishop Jewel, he was sent to Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and in 1577 was 
admitted a fellow of his college. About 1581 he entered into holy orders, and not 
long after was appointed to preach in London at Paul's Cross. It was a pulpit cross 
which, from very early times, had stood at the north-east corner of St. Paul's Church- 
yard where it remained until 1643, when it was demolished by the ordinance of the 
long parliament, of the 28th of August in that year, for removing all crosses from 
churchyards, as being among what were called monuments of superstition and 
idolatry. Royal proclamations were published from St. Paul's Cross, and on certain 
days, particularly on Good Friday and Low Sunday, some learned man was appointed 
by the bishop of London to preach there before the lord-mayor and aldermen. Besides 
money paid to the preacher, provision was made for his lodging and diet, for two days 
before and one day after the sermon, at a house called the Shunamite's house, a pro- 
vision which, in the year 1607, was extended to a week, from one Thursday to the 
next. When Hooker came to London to preach, the Shunamite's house was kept by 
John Churchman, a decayed draper ; he arrived wet, weary and weather-beaten, com- 
plaining of the friend who had persuaded him to ride to London instead of footing it, 
his usual way of travelling. Fatigue made him faint at heart, and he would not be- 
lieve that two days' nursing could enable him to preach his Sunday's sermon ; but a 
warm bed and rest, and drink proper for a cold given to him by Mrs. Churchman, and 
her diligent attendance, made him fit for the duty. 

Hooker, the most simple-hearted of all creatures, who had long dwelt alone among 
his books, and had not, perbaps, since he left his mother until now been blessed with 
woman-kindness, was so grateful to Mrs. Churchman that he thought himself bound 
in conscience to believe all that she said ; she persuaded him that he was a man of a 
tender constitution, and that it was best for him to have a wife that might prove a 
nurse to him ; such an one as might both prolong his life and make it more comfort- 
able, and such an one she could and would provide for him ; so he promised to marry 
a wife of her choosing ; she chose her daughter Joan, and Hooker married Joan and 
lost his fellowship. 

In 1584 he was presented to a small living at Drayton Beau champ near Aylesbury, 
and in the year following the mastership of the Temple was offered to him. He 
wished rather for a better country living, but suffered himself to be persuaded, and 
was chosen to the office. Here he expected peace, but was disappointed. Walter 
Travers, a puritan, a man of competent learning, of winning behaviour and blame- 
less life, was afternoon lecturer, and was favoured by the younger gentlemen of the 



society ; so Hooker and Travers, without bitterness, withstood each other in their 
sermons ; the forenoon sermon spake Canterbury and the afternoon Geneva. 

At the Temple Hooker meditated his great work of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, 
but he could not finish it there ; he was weary of noise and opposition, and found 
that God and nature did not intend him for contention, but for study and quietness ; 
therefore he besought archbishop Whitgift to remove him to some place where he 
might keep himself in peace and privacy, and behold God's blessing spring out of his 
mother earth, and eat his own bread without opposition. In 1591 the archbishop 
presented him to the rectory of Boscomb, about six miles from Salisbury, and he 
finished four books of the Ecclesiastical Polity, which were published in 1592. In 
1595 he resigned Boscomb for the living of Bishop's Bourne, in Kent, about three 
miles from Canterbury, on the high road thence to Dover; there, having in 1597 
published the fifth book of his great work, he died on the 2nd of November 1G00, 
and was buried in Bishop's Bourne church. 

Hooker's marriage was an unhappy one. Joan had neither beauty nor portion, 
nor good conditions ; she was a torment to her meek and patient husband. Isaak 
Walton, from whose life of Hooker these notes have been almost wholly taken, re- 
lates that Edwin Sandys the son of the archbishop of York, and George Cranmer the 
great nephew of the archbishop of that name, who had been Hooker's pupils at col- 
lege, visited him at Drayton. They found him with the Odes of Horace in his hand, 
keeping his small flock of sheep on the common field, and learnt that he was forced 
to do this because his wife had some employment for his servant at home. When 
the servant returned they went together to the house to enjoy their tutor's quiet 
company, which was presently denied them, for Richard was called by Joan to rock 
the cradle, and the rest of their welcome was so like this that they sought another 
lodging for the next night. Mr. Cranmer, at parting, expressed his sorrow that the 
wife proved not a more comfortable companion, and the good man replied, " My dear 
George, if saints have usually a double share in the miseries of this life, I, that am 
none, ought not to repine at what my wise Creator hath appointed for me ; but la- 
bour, as indeed I do daily, to submit mine to his will, and possess my soul in patience 
and peace." 

His wife ruled him to the last act of his life ; he had four daughters, but he left 
the bulk of his property to her. She married again, almost immediately after his 
death, and survived him only four months. 

This meek and patient man was earliest among the greatest writers of England ; 
in learning, wisdom and eloquence no equal had gone before him. Mr. Hallam, who 
is not lavish of praise, says of Richard Hooker, " He not only opened the mine, but 
explored the depths of our native eloquence. So stately and graceful is the march of 
his periods, so various the fall of his musical cadences upon the ear, so rich in images, 
so condensed in sentences, so grave and noble his diction, so little is there of vul- 
garity in his racy idiom, of pedantry in his learned phrase, that I know not whether 
any later writer has more admirably displayed the capacities of our language, or pro- 
duced passages more worthy of comparison with the splendid monuments of anti- 

The Ecclesiastical Polity is in eight books, of which five only were published in 
Hooker's lifetime ; it is said that the book which is printed as the sixth, though pro- 
bably his, belonged to a different work, and that the true sixth book, and the con- 
clusion of the eighth book, are lost. Some have supposed, but it seems without rea- 
son, that alterations were made in the seventh and eighth books by the Puritans* 




This world's first creation, and the pre- 
servation since of things created, what is 
it but only so far forth a manifestation by 
execution what the eternal law of God is 
concerning things natural? And as it 
cometh to pass in a kingdom rightly or- 
dered, that after a law is once published, 
it presently takes effect far and wide, all 
states framing themselves thereunto ; even 
so let us think it fareth in the natural 
course of the world : since the time that 
God did first proclaim the edicts of his 
law upon it, heaven and earth have heark- 
ened unto his voice, and their labour hath 
been to do his will : He " made a law for 
the rain ;" He gave his " decree unto the 
sea, that the waters should not pass his 
commandment." Now, if nature should 
intermit her course and leave altogether, 
though it were but for a while, the obser- 
vation of her own laws ; if those principal 
and mother elements of the world, whereof 
all things in this lower world are made, 
should lose the qualities which now they 
have ; if the frame of that heavenly arch 
erected over our heads shoidd loosen and 
dissolve itself; if celestial spheres should 
forget their wonted motions, and by irre- 
gular volubility turn themselves any way 
as it might happen ; if the prince of the 
lights of heaven, which now, as a giant, 
doth run his unwearied course, should, as 
it were, through a languishing faintness 
begin to stand and to rest himself ; if the 
moon should wander from her beaten 
way, the times and seasons of the year 
blend themselves by disordered and con- 
fused mixture, the winds breathe out their 
last gasp, the clouds yield no rain, the 
earth be defeated of heavenly influence, 
the fruits of the earth pine away as chil- 
dren at the withered breasts of their mo- 
ther, no longer able to yield them relief ; 
what would become of man himself, whom 
these things do now all serve ? See we 
not plainly that obedience of creatures 
unto the law of nature is the stay of the 
whole world ? 

Notwithstanding, with nature it cometh 
sometimes to pass as with art. Let Phi- 
dias have rude and obstinate stuff to carve, 
though his art do that it should, his work 
will lack that beauty which otherwise in 
fitter matter it might have had. He that 
striketh an instrument with skill may 
cause, notwithstanding, a very unpleasant 
60und, if the string whereon he striketh 

chance to be incapable of harmony. In 
the matter whereof things natural con- 
sist, that of Theophrastus takes place, 
" Much of it is oftentimes such as will by 
no means yield to receive that impression 
which were best and most perfect." 
Which defect in the matter of things na- 
tural, they who gave themselves unto the , 
contemplation of nature amongst the hea- 
then observed often : but the true ori- 
ginal cause thereof, divine malediction, 
laid for the sin of man upon these crea- 
tures, which God had made for the use of 
man, this being an article of that saving 
truth which God hath revealed unto his 
church, was above the reach of their 
merely natural capacity and understand- 
ing. But howsoever these swervings are 
now and then incident into the course of 
nature, nevertheless, so constantly the, 
laws of nature are by natural agents ob- 
served, that no man denieth, but those 
things which nature worketh are wrought, 
either always or for the most part, after 
one and the same manner. 

If here it be demanded what that is 
which keepeth nature in obedience to her 
own law, we must have recourse to that 
higher law whereof we have already 
spoken ; and because all other laws do 
thereon depend, from thence we must 
borrow so much as shall need for brief 
resolution in this point. Although we are 
not of opinion therefore, as some are, that 
nature in working hath before her certain 
exemplary draughts or patterns, which 
subsisting in the bosom of the highest, 
and being thence discovered, she fixeth 
her eye upon them as travellers by sea 
upon the pole-star of the world, and that 
according thereunto she guideth her hand 
to work by imitation : although we rather 
embrace the oracle of Hippocrates, that 
" each thing, both in small and in great, 
fulfilleth the task which destiny hath set 
down ;" and concerning the manner of 
executing and fulfilling the same, " What 
they do they know not, yet is it in show 
and appearance as though they did know 
what they do ; and the truth is, they do 
not discern the tilings which they look 
on :" nevertheless, for as much as the 
works of nature are no less exact, than if 
she did both behold and study how to ex- 
press some absolute shape or mirror al- 
ways present before her; yea, such her 
dexterity and skill appeareth, that no in- 
tellectual creature in the world were able 
by capacity to do that which nature doth 
without capacity and knowledge ; it can- 



not be but nature hath some director of 
infinite knowledge to guide her in all her 
ways. Who the guide of nature, but only 
the God of nature ? " In him we live, 
and move, and are." Those things which 
nature is said to do, are by divine art per- 
formed, using nature as an instrument ; 
nor is there any such art or knowledge 
divine in nature herself working, but in 
the guide of nature's work. 

Whereas therefore things natural, which 
are not in the number of voluntary agents 
(for of such only we now speak, and of no 
other), do so necessarily observe their cer- 
tain laws, that as long as they keep those 
forms which give them their being, they 
cannot possibly be apt or inclinable to do 
otherwise than they do ; seeing the kinds 
of their operations are both constantly 
and exactly framed according to the seve- 
ral ends for which they serve, they them- 
selves in the meanwhile, though doing 
that which is fit, yet knowing neither what 
they do nor why : it followeth that all 
which they do in this sort proceedeth ori- 
ginally from some such agent, as knoweth, 
appointeth, holdeth up, and even actually 
frameth the same. 

The manner of this divine efficiency 
being far above us, we are no more able 
to conceive by our reason, than creatures 
unreasonable by their sense are able to 
apprehend after what manner we dispose 
and order the course of our affairs. Only 
thus much is discerned, that the natural 
generation and process of all things re- 
ceiveth order of proceeding from the set- 
tled stability of divine understanding. 
This appointeth unto them their kinds of 
working ; the disposition whereof in the 
purity of God's own knowledge and will, 
is rightly termed by the name of Provi- 
dence. The same being referred unto the 
things themselves here disposed by it, was 
wont by the ancients to be called Natural 
Destiny. That law, the performance 
whereof we behold in things natural, is 
as it were an authentical or an original 
draught, written in the bosom of God him- 
self; whose spirit being to execute the 
same, useth every particular nature, every 
mere natural agent, only as an instrument 
created at the beginning, and ever since 
the beginning used, to work his own will 
and pleasure withal. Nature therefore is 
nothing else but God's instrument ; in the 
course whereof Dionysius, perceiving some 
sudden disturbance, is said to have cried 
out, " Either God doth suffer impedi- 
ment, and is by a greater than himself 

hindered ; or if that be impossible, then 
hath he determined to make a present 
dissolution of the world; the execution 
of that law beginning now to stand still, 
without which the world cannot stand." 

This workman, whose servitor nature 
is, being in truth but only one, the hea- 
thens imagining to be more, gave him in 
the sky the name of Jupiter, in the air the 
name of Juno, in the water the name of 
Neptune, in the earth the name of Vesta 
and sometimes of Ceres, the name of 
Apollo in the sun, in the moon the name 
of Diana, the name of jEoIus, and divers 
other in the winds ; and to conclude, even 
so many guides of nature they dreamed 
of, as they saw there were kinds of things 
natural in the world. These they ho- 
noured, as having power to work or cease, 
accordingly as men deserved of them. 
But unto us there is one only guide of all 
agents natural, and he both the creator 
and the worker of all in all, alone to be 
blessed, adored, and honoured by all for 
ever. Richard Hooker. 


The due observation of the law which 
reason teacheth us, cannot but be effec- 
tual unto their great good that observe 
the same. For we see the whole world 
and each part thereof so compacted, that 
as long as each thing performeth only that 
work which is natural unto it, it thereby 
preserveth both other things, and also it- 
self. Contrariwise, let any principal thing, 
as the sun, the moon, any one of the hea- 
vens or elements, but once cease, or fail, 
or swerve, and who doth not easily con- 
ceive that the sequel thereof would be 
ruin both to itself and whatsoever depend- 
eth on it? And is it possible that man 
being not only the noblest creature in the 
world, but even a very world in himself, 
his transgressing the law of his nature 
should draw no manner of harm after it ? 
Yes, " Tribulation and anguish unto every 
soul that doeth evil ! " Good doth follow 
unto all things by observing the course of 
their nature, and on the contrary side 
evil by not observing it ; but not unto 
natural agents that good which we call 
reward, not that evil which we properly 
term punishment. The reason whereof is, 
because amongst creatures in this world 
only man's observation of the law of his 
nature is righteousness, only man's trans- 
gression sin. And the reason of this is, 



the difference in his manner of observing 
or transgressing the law of his nature. 
He doth not otherwise than voluntarily 
the one or the other. What we do against 
our wills, or constrainedly, we are not pro- 
perly said to do it, because the motive 
cause of doing it is not in ourselves, but 
carrieth us (as if the wind should drive a 
feather in the air), we no whit furthering 
that whereby we are driven. In such cases 
therefore the evil which is done moveth 
compassion. Men are pitied for it, as 
being rather miserable in such respect 
than culpable. Some things are likewise 
done by man, though not through out- 
ward force and impulsion, though not 
against, yet without their wills ; as in 
alienation of mind, or any the like inevi- 
table utter absence of wit and judgment. 
For which cause no man did ever think 
the hurtful actions of furious men and in- 
nocents to be punishable. Again, some 
things we do neither against nor without, 
and yet not simply and merely with our 
wills, but with our wills in such sort 
moved, that albeit there be no impossi- 
bility but that we might, nevertheless we 
are not so easily able to do otherwise. 
In this consideration one evil deed is made 
more pardonable than another. Finally, 
that which we do being evil, is notwith- 
standing by so much more pardonable, 
by how much the exigence of so doing, or 
the difficulty of doing otherwise, is greater; 
unless this necessity or difficulty have 
originally risen from ourselves. It is no 
excuse therefore unto him, who being 
drunk committeth incest, and allegeth 
that Ms wits w T ere not his own ; inasmuch 
as himself might have chosen, whether 
his wits should by that mean have been 
taken from him. Now rewards and pu- 
nishments do always presuppose some- 
thing willingly done well or ill ; without 
which respect, though we may sometimes 
receive good or harm, yet then the one is 
only a benefit and not a reward, the other 
simply a hurt not a punishment. From 
the sundry dispositions of man's will, 
which is the root of all his actions, there 
groweth variety in the sequel of rewards 
and punishments, which are by these and 
the like rules measured : " Take away the 
will and all acts are equal : that which we 
do not and would do, is commonly ac- 
cepted as done." By these and the like 
rules men's actions are determined of and 
judged, whether they be in their own na- 
ture rewardable or punishable. 

Rewards and punishments are not re- 

ceived but at the hands of such as being 
above us have power to examine and judge 
our deeds. All do acknowledge that sith 
every man's heart and conscience doth in 
good or evil, even secretly committed and 
known to none but itself, either like or 
disallow itself, and accordingly either re- 
joice, very nature exulting, as it w r ere, in 
certain hope of reward ; or else grieve, as 
it were, in a sense of future punishment ; 
neither of which can in this case be look- 
ed for from any other, saving only from 
him who discerneth and judgeth the very 
secrets of all hearts ; therefore he is the 
only rewarder and revenger of all such 
actions ; although not of such actions only, 
but of all whereby the law of nature is 
broken, wiiereof himself is author. For 
which cause the Roman laws, called the 
Laws of the Twelve Tables, requiring 
offices of inward affection which the eye 
of man cannot reach unto, threaten the 
neglecters of them with none but divine 
punishment. Richard Hooker. 


The public power of all societies is above 
every soul contained in the same societies. 
And the principal use of that power is to 
give laws unto all that are under it, which 
laws in such case w r e must obey, unless 
there be reason show r ed winch may neces- 
sarily enforce, that the law of reason or 
of God doth enjoin the contrary ; because, 
except our own private and but probable 
resolutions, be by the law of public deter- 
minations over-ruled, we take away all 
possibility of sociable life in the world. 
A plainer example whereof than ourselves 
we cannot have. How cometh it to pass 
that we are at this present day so rent 
with mutual contentions, and that the 
church is so much troubled about the 
polity of the church ? No doubt, if men 
had been willing to learn how many laws 
their actions in this life are subject unto, 
and what the true force of each law is, all 
these controversies might have died the 
very day they were first brought forth. 

It is both commonly said and truly, 
that the best men otherwise are not al- 
ways the best in regard of society. The 
reason whereof is, for that the law of 
men's actions is one, if they be respected 
only as men ; and another, when they are 
considered as parts of a politic body. 
Many men there are, than wiiom nothing 
is more commendable when they are sin- 



gled ; and yet in society with others, none 
less fit to answer the duties which are 
looked for at their hands. Yea, I am per- 
suaded, that of them With whom in this 
cause we strive, there are whose betters 
among men would be hardly found, if they 
did not live amongst men, but in some 
wilderness by themselves. The cause of 
which, their disposition so unframeable 
unto societies wherein they live, is, for 
that they discern not aright what place 
and force these several kinds of laws ought 
to have in all their actions. Is there ques- 
tion either concerning the regiment of the 
church in general, or about conformity be- 
tween one church and another, or of cere- 
monies, offices, powers, jurisdictions, in 
our own church ? Of all these things they 
judge by that rule which they frame to 
themselves with some show of probability; 
and what seemeth in that sort convenient, 
the same they think themselves bound to 
practise ; the same by all means they la- 
bour mightily to uphold ; whatsoever any 
law of man to the contrary hath deter- 
mined, they weigh it not. Thus, by fol- 
lowing the law of private reason, where 
the law of public should take place, they 
breed disturbance. For the better in- 
uring therefore of men's minds with the 
true distinction of laws, and of their seve- 
ral force, according to the different kind 
and quality of our actions, it shall not 
peradventure be amiss to show in some 
one example, how they all take place. 
To seek no farther, let but that be consi- 
dered, than which there is not anything 
more familiar unto us, our food. What 
things are food and what are not, we judge 
naturally by sense ; neither need we any 
other law to be our director in that be- 
half than the self-same which is common 
unto us with beasts. But when we come 
to consider of food as of a benefit which 
God of his bounteous goodness hath pro- 
vided for all things living, the law of rea- 
son doth here require the duty of thank- 
fulness at our hands, towards him at whose 
hands we have it. And lest appetite in 
the use of food should lead us beyond that 
which is meet, we owe in this case obedi- 
ence to that law of reason which teacheth 
mediocrity in meats and drinks. The 
same things divine law teacheth also, as 
it doth all parts of moral duty, whereunto 
we all of necessity stand bound in regard 
of the life to come. But of certain kinds 
of food the Jews sometimes had, and we 
ourselves likewise have a mystical, reli- 
gious and supernatural use ; they of their 

paschal lamb and oblations ; we of our 
bread and wine in the eucharist ; which 
use none but divine law could institute. 

Now as we live in civil society, the 
state of the commonwealth wherein we 
live, both may and doth require certain 
laws concerning food ; which laws, saving 
only that we are members of the common- 
wealth where they are of force, we should 
not need to respect as rules of action; 
whereas, now in their place and kind they 
must be respected and obeyed. Thus we 
see how even one and the self-same thing 
is under divers considerations conveyed 
through many laws : and that to measure 
by any one kind of law all the actions of 
men, were to confound the admirable order 
wherein God hath disposed all laws, each 
as in nature so in degree distinct from 
other. Wherefore, that here we may 
briefly end ; of law there can be no less 
acknowledged than that her seat is the 
bosom of God, her voice the harmony of 
the world ; all things in heaven and earth 
do her homage, the very least as feeling 
her care, and the greatest as not exempted 
from her power; both angels and men, 
and creatures of what condition soever, 
though each in different sort and manner, 
yet all with uniform consent, admiring her 
as the mother of their peace and joy. 

Richard Hooker. 


Touching musical harmony, whether 
by instrument or by voice, it being but of 
high and low in sounds a due proportion- 
able disposition, such, notwithstanding, is 
the force thereof, and so pleasing effects 
it hath, in that very part of man which is 
most divine, that some have been thereby 
induced to think that the soul itself by 
nature is, or hath in it, harmony ; a thing 
which delighteth all ages, and beseemeth 
all states ; a thing as seasonable in grief 
as in joy ; as decent being added unto 
actions of greatest weight and solemnity, 
as being used when men most sequester 
themselves from action. The reason 
hereof is an admirable facility which mu- 
sic hath to express and represent to the 
mind, more inwardly than any other sen- 
sible mean, the very standing, rising, and 
falling, the very steps and inflections 
every way, the turns and varieties of all 
passions whereunto the mind is subject ; 
yea, so to imitate them, that whether it 
resemble unto us the same state wherein 



our minds already are, or a clean con- 
trary, we are not more contentedly by 
the one confirmed, than changed and led 
away by the other. In harmony the very 
image and character even of virtue and 
vice is perceived, the mind delighted with 
then - resemblances, and brought, by ha- 
ving them often iterated, into a love of the 
things themselves. For which cause there 
is nothing more contagious and pestilent 
than some kinds of harmony ; than some, 
nothing more strong and potent unto 
good. And that there is such a differ- 
ence of one kind from another, we need 
no proof but our own experience, inas- 
much as we are at the hearing of some 
more inclined unto sorrow and heaviness, 
of some more mollified and softened in 
mind ; one kind apter to stay and settle 
us, another to move and stir our affec- 
tions ; there is that draweth to a marvel- 
lous grave and sober mediocrity, there is 
also that carrieth as it were into ecstasies, 
filling the mind with a heavenly joy, and 
for the time, in a manner severing it from 
the body : so that, although we lay alto- 
gether aside the consideration of ditty or 
matter, the very harmony of sounds being 
framed in due sort, and earned from the 
ear to the spiritual faculties of our souls, 
is by a native puissance and efficacy, 
greatly available to bring to a perfect 
temper whatsoever is there troubled, apt 
as well to quicken the spirits as to allay 
that which is too eager, sovereign against 
melancholy and despair, forcible to draw 
forth tears of devotion, if the mind be 
such as can yield them, able both to move 
and to moderate all affections. 

The prophet David having therefore sin- 
gular knowledge, not in poetry alone, but 
in music also, judged them both to be 
things most necessary for the house of 
God, left behind him to that purpose a 
number of divinely indited poems, and 
was further the author of adding unto 
poetry melody in public prayer, melody 
both vocal and instrumental, for the rai- 
sing up of men's hearts, and the sweetening 
of their affections towards God. In which 
considerations the church of Christ doth 
likewise at this present day retain it as an 
ornament to God's service, and a help 
to our own devotion. They which, under 
pretence of the law ceremonial abrogated, 
require the abrogation of instrumental 
music, approving nevertheless the use of 
vocal melody to remain, must show some 
reason wherefore the one should be thought 
a legal ceremony and not the other. 

In church music, curiosity and osten- 
tation of art, wanton, or light, or unsuit- 
able harmony, such as only pleaseth the 
ear, and doth not naturally serve to the 
very kind and degree of those impressions, 
which the matter that goeth with it 
leaveth, or is apt to leave in men's minds, 
doth rather blemish and disgrace that 
we do, than add either beauty or fur- 
therance unto it. On the other side, 
these faults prevented, the force and effi- 
cacy of the thing itself, when it drowneth 
j not' utterly, but fitly suiteth with matter 
i altogether sounding to the praise of God, 
I is in truth most admirable, and doth much 
! edify, if not the understanding, because it 
teacheth not, yet surely the affection, be- 
i cause therein it worketh much. They 
must have hearts very dry and tough, 
j from whom the melody of Psalms doth 
I not some time draw that wherein a mind 
I religiously affected delighteth. Be it as 
Rabanus Maurus observeth, that at the 
1 first the church in this exercise was more 
! simple and plain than we are ; that their 
j singing was little more than only a melo- 
! dious kind of pronunciation ; that the 
! custom which we now use was not insti- 
■ tuted so much for their cause which are 
spiritual, as to the end that into grosser 
j and heavier minds, whom bare words do 
not easily move, the sweetness of melody 
' might make some entrance for good 
: things. St. Basil himself, acknowledging 
j as much, did not think that from such 
I inventions the least jot of estimation and 
! credit thereby should be derogated : " For 
! (saith he) whereas the Holy Spirit saw 
j that mankind is unto virtue hardly drawn, 
I and that righteousness is the less ac- 
; counted of by reason of the proneness of 
l our affections to that which delighteth ; 
it pleased the wisdom of the same spirit 
! to borrow from melody that pleasure, 
| which, mingled with heavenly mysteries, 
I causeth the smoothness and softness of 
that which toucheth the ear, to convey, 
as it were by stealth, the treasure of good 
I things into man's mind. To this purpose 
j were those harmonious tunes of Psalms 
] devised for us, that they which are either 
in years but young, or touching perfection 
j of virtue as yet not grown to ripeness, 
might, when they think they sing, learn. 
the wise conceit of that Heavenly 
Teacher, which hath by his skill found 
out a way, that doing those things where- 
in we delight, we may also learn that 
whereby we profit !" Richard Hooker. 




bishop of Exeter, and afterwards of Norwich, was born, as he tells us, at Ashby de 
la Zouch, in Leicestershire, at five o'clock in the morning of the 1st of July 1574. 
He was educated at the grammar-school of his native town, and at Emmanuel College, 
Cambridge. In 1595 he was elected a fellow of his college, and in 1597 and 1598 he 
published his Satires, of which Warton speaks as marked with a classical precision to 
which English poetry had yet rarely attained, and Thomas Campbell, as in point of 
volubility and vigour of numbers, frequently reminding the reader of Dryden. In 
1605 he travelled in France and the Netherlands. In 1627 he was made bishop of 
Exeter, in which office he was suspected by archbishop Laud to be a favourer of the 
Puritans ; but in 1640 he came boldly forward to defend episcopacy and the liturgy 
against a host of adversaries, whom Milton afterwards joined. In 1641 he was trans- 
lated to the bishoprick of Norwich, and in the same year, for protesting, with other 
bishops, against the validity of all votes and resolutions of the House of Lords, during 
their absence from fear of the mob, he was ordered to the Tower and impeached of 
treason, but finally dismissed after some months' imprisonment. In 1643 the Long 
Parliament deprived him of the revenue of his see, and he retired upon a scanty 
allowance to Heigham near Norwich, where he died on the 8th of September 1656, 
and was buried in the parish church of Heigham. 

The chief prose works of bishop Hall are his Contemplations, Meditations, and 
Sermons. He has been characterised as sententious, full of learning and of fancy, 
often descending to conceits : the passages which follow, the first from his Contem- 
plations, the other from one of his Sermons, prove that he could rise to overwhelming 


Even when they were washed and sanc- 
tified, the Israelites may not touch the 
mount, not only with their feet, but not 
with their eyes : the smoke keeps it from 
their eyes, the marks from their feet. 
Not only men, that had some impurity at 
their best, are restrained, but even beasts, 
which are not capable of any unholiness. 
Those beasts which must touch his altars, 
yet might not touch his hill; and if a 
beast touch it, he must die ; yet so as no 
hands may touch that which hath touched 
the hill. Unreasonableness might seem 
to be an excuse in these creatures ; that 
therefore which is death to a beast, must 
needs be capital to them whose reason 
should guide them to avoid presumption. 
Those Israelites which saw God every day 
in the pillar of fire and the cloud, must 
not come near him in the mount. God 
loves at once familiarity and fear ; famili- 
arity in our conversation, and fear in his 
commands. He loves to be acquainted 
with men in the walks of their obedience ; 

yet he takes state on him in his ordi- 
nances, and will be trembled at in his 
word and judgments. 

I see the difference of God's carriage to 
men in the law and in the gospel : there, 
the very hill where he appeared may not be 
touched of the purest Israelite ; here, the 
hem of his garment is touched by the 
woman that had the flux of blood ; yea, 
his very face was touched with the lips of 
Judas : there, the very earth was prohi- 
bited them, on which he descended ; here, 
his very body and blood is proffered to 
our touch and taste. the marvellous 
kindness of our God ! How unthankful 
are we, if we do not acknowledge this 
mercy above his ancient people ! They 
were his own, yet strangers in comparison 
of our liberty. It is our shame and sin, 
if, in these means of intireness, we be no 
better acquainted with God than they, 
which in their greatest familiarity were 
commanded aloof. 

God was ever wonderful in his works 
and fearful in his judgments ; but he was 
never so terrible in the execution of his 
will, as now in the promulgation of it. 



Here was nothing but a majestical terror 
in the eyes, in the ears of the Israelites, 
as if God meant to show them by this 
how fearful he could be. Here was the 
lightning darted in their eyes, the thun- 
ders roaring in their ears, the trumpet of 
God drowning the thunder-claps, the 
voice of God outspeaking the trumpet of 
the angel; the cloud enwrapping, the 
smoke ascending, the fire flaming, the 
mount trembling, Moses climbing and 
quaking, paleness and death in the face 
of Israel, uproar in the elements, and all 
the glory of heaven turned into terror ! 
In the destruction of the first world there 
were clouds without fire ; in the destruc- 
tion of Sodom there was fire raining 
without clouds ; but here was fire, smoke, 
clouds, thunder, earthquakes, and what- 
soever might work more astonishment 
than ever was in any vengeance in- 

And if the law were thus given, how 
shall it be required ? If such were the 
proclamation of God's statutes, what shall 
the sessions be ? I see and tremble at 
the resemblance. The trumpet of the 
angel called unto the one ; the voice of 
an archangel, the trumpet of God shall 
summon us to the other. To the one, 
Moses, that climbed up that hill, and 
alone saw it, says, " God came with ten 
thousands of his saints ;" in the other, 
" thousand thousands shall minister to 
him, and ten thousand thousands shall 
stand before him :" in the one, Mount 
Sinai only was on a flame ; all the world 
shall be so in the other : in the one, there 
was fire, smoke, thunder and lightning ; 
in the other, a fiery stream shall issue 
from him, wherewith the heavens shall be 
dissolved, and the elements shall melt 
away with a noise. God, how powerful 
art thou to inflict vengeance on sinners, 
who didst thus forbid sin ! and if thou 
wert so terrible a lawgiver, what a judge 
shalt thou appear ! What shall become 
of the breakers of so fiery a law ? 
where shall those appear that are guilty 
of the transgressing that law, whose very 
delivery was little less than death ? If 
our God should exact his law but in the 
same rigor wherein he gave it, sin could 
not quit the cost : but now the fire, 
wherein it was delivered, was but terri- 
fying ; the fire wherein it shall be required 
is consuming. Happy are those that are 
from under the terrors of that law, which 

was given in fire, and in fire shall be 

This fire, wherein the law was given, is 
still in it, and will never out : hence are 
those terrors which it flashes in every 
conscience that hath felt remorse of sin. 
Every man's heart is a Sinai, and resem- 
bles to him both heaven and hell. " The 
sting of death is sin, and the strength of 
sin is the law!" 

That they might see he could find out 
their closest sins, he delivers his law in 
the light of fire from out of the smoke : 
that they might see what is due to their 
sins, they see fire above, to represent the 
fire that should be below them : that they 
might know he could waken their secu- 
rity, the thunder and louder voice of God 
speaks to their hearts : that they might 
see what their hearts should do, the earth 
quakes under them : that they might see 
they could not shift their appearance, the 
angels call them together. royal law, 
and mighty lawgiver ! How could they 
think of having any other God, that had 
such proofs of this ? How could they 
think of making any resemblance of him, 
whom they saw could not be seen, and 
whom they saw, in not being seen, infinite ? 
How could they think of daring to pro- 
fane his name, whom they heard to name 
himself, with that voice, Jehovah ? How 
could they think of standing with him for 
a day, whom they saw to command that 
heaven which makes and measures day ? 
How could they think of disobeying his 
deputies, whom they saw so able to re- 
venge ? How could they think of killing, 
when they w r ere half dead with the fear 
of him that could kill both body and soul ? 
How could they think of the flames of 
lust, that saw such fires of vengeance ? 
How could they think of stealing from 
others, that saw whose the heaven and 
earth was to dispose of at his pleasure ? 
How could they think of speaking falsely, 
that heard God speak in so fearful a tone? 
How could they think of coveting others' 
goods, that saw how weak and uncertain 
right they had to their own ? Yea, to us 
was this law so delivered, to us in them : 
neither had there been such state in the 
promulgation of it, if God had not in- 
tended it for eternity. We men, that so 
fear the breach of human laws, for some 
small mulcts of forfeiture; how should 
we fear thee, Lord, that can cast body 
and soul into hell ! Joseph Hall. 




Behold, this field was not without sweat 
and blood ; yea, a sweat of blood. Oh, 
what man or angel can conceive the 
taking of that heart, that, without all out- 
ward violence, merely out of the extremity 
of his own passion, bled, through the 
flesh and skin, not some faint dew, but 
solid drops of blood ? No thorns, no 
nails fetched blood from him with so 
much pain as his own thoughts. He saw 
the fierce wrath of his Father, and there- 
fore feared : he saw the heavy burden of 
our sins to be undertaken; and thereupon, 
besides fear, justly grieved : he saw the 
necessity of our eternal damnation if he 
suffered not ; if he did suffer, of our 
redemption ; and therefore his love en- 
countered both grief and fear. In itself, 
he would not drink of that cup : in re- 
spect of our good and his decree, he would 
and did ; and while he thus striveth, he 
sweats and bleeds. There was never such 
a combat ; never such a bloodshed : and 
yet it is not finished. I dare not say with 
some schoolmen, that the sorrow of his 
passion was not so great as the sorrow of 
his compassion ; yet that was surely ex- 
ceeding great. To see the ungracious 
carelessness of mankind, the slender fruit 
of his sufferings, the sorrows of his mother, 
disciples, friends ; to foresee, from the 
watchtower of his cross, the future temp- 
tations of his children, desolations of his 
church ; all these must needs strike deep 
into a tender heart. These he still sees 
and pities, but without passion : then he 
suffered in seeing them. 

Can we yet say any more ? Lo, all 
these sufferings are aggravated by his 
fulness of knowledge and want of comfort : 
for he did not shut his eyes, as one saith, 
when he drunk this cup : he saw how 
dreggish, and knew how bitter it was. 
Sudden evils afflict, if not less, shorter. 
He foresaw and foresaid every particular 
he should suffer : so long as he foresaw 
he suffered : the expectation of evil is not 
less than the sense : to look long for good 
is a punishment ; but for evil, is a tor- 
ment. No passion works upon an un- 
known object : as no love, so no fear, is 
of what we know not. Hence men fear 
not hell, because they foresee it not : if 
we could see that pit open before we come 
at it, it would make us tremble at our 
sins, and our knees to knock together as 
Belshazzar's ; and perbaps, without faith, 

to run mad at the horror of judgment. 
He saw the burden of all particular sins 
to be laid upon him : every dram of his 
Father's wrath was measured out to him, 
ere he touched this potion : this cup was 
full, and he knew that it must be wringed, 
not a drop left : it must be finished. 

Oh yet, if as he foresaw all his sorrows, 
so he could have seen some mixture of re- 
freshing ! " But I found none to comfort 
me, no, none to pity me." And yet it is a 
poor comfort that arises from pity. Even 
so, Lord, thou treadest this winepress 
alone ; none to accompany, none to assist 
thee. The greatest torments are easy, 
when they have answerable comforts ; 
but a wounded and comfortless spirit who 
can bear ? 

If yet but the same messengers of God 
might have attended his cross, that ap- 
peared in his agony, and might have given 
ease to their Lord, as he did to his ser- 
vant ! And yet, what can the angels help 
where God will smite ? Against the vio- 
lence of men, against the fury of Satan, 
they have prevailed in the cause of God, 
for men : they dare not, they cannot com- 
fort where God will afflict. 

For men, much less could they, if they 
would ; but what did they ? " Miserable 
comforters are ye all." The soldiers ; 
they stripped him, scorned him with his 
purple crown, reed, spat on him, smote 
him : the passengers ; they reviled him, 
and insulting, wagging their heads and 
hands at him, "Hey, thou that destroyedst 
the temple, come down," &c. : the elders 
and scribes; alas, they have bought his 
blood, suborned witnesses, incensed Pi- 
late, preferred Barabbas, undertook the 
guilt of his death, cried out, "Crucify, cru- 
cify !" " Ho ! thou that savedst others :" 
his disciples ; alas, they forsook him, one 
of them forswears him, another runs away 
naked rather than he will stay and con- 
fess him : his mother and other friends ; 
they look on indeed, and sorrow with 
him, but to his discomfort. Where the 
grief is extreme and respects near, part- 
nership doth but increase sorrow. Paul 
chides this love : " What do you weeping, 
and breaking my heart?" The tears of 
those we love do either slacken our hearts 
or wound them. 

Who then shall comfort him ? himself ? 
sometimes our own thoughts find a way 
to succour us, unknown to others : no, 
not himself. Doubtless, as Aquinas saith, 
the influence of the higher part of the 
soul was restrained from the aid of the 



inferior : " My soul is filled with evils." 
Who then? his Father? here, here was his 
hope : " If the Lord had not holpen me, 
my soul had almost dwelt in silence:" 
" I and my Father are one." But now, 
alas, he, even he, delivers him into the 
hands of his enemies ; when he hath done, 
turns his back upon him as a stranger ; 
yea, he woundeth him as an enemy. " The 
Lord would break him." Yet anything 
is light to the soul, while the comforts of 
God sustain it : who can dismay where 
God will relieve ? But here, " My God, 
my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?'" 
What a word was here to come from the 
mouth of the Son of God ! " My disci- 
ples are men, weak and fearful : no marvel 
if they forsake me. The Jews are them- 
selves cruel and obstinate. Men are men, 
graceless and unthankful. Devils are, 
according to their nature, spiteful and 
malicious. All these do but their kind ; 
and let them do it : but thou, Father, 
thou that hast said, ' This is my well- 
beloved son, in whom I am well pleased;' 
thou, of whom I have said, ' It is my 
Father that glorifies me ;' what, forsaken 
me ! Not only brought me to this shame, 
smitten me, unregarded me ; but as it 
were, forgotten, yea, forsaken me ! what, 
even me, my Father ! How many of thy 
constant servants have suffered heavy 
tilings ! yet, in the multitudes of the sor- 
rows of their hearts, thy presence and 
comforts have refreshed their souls. Hast 
thou relieved them, and dost thou forsake 
me ? me, thine only, dear, natural, eter- 
nal son ?" O ye heavens and earth, how 
could you stand, while the Maker of you 
thus complained ? Ye stood ; but par- 
taking after a sort of his passion : the 
earth trembled and shook ; her rocks tore, 
her graves opened ; the heavens withdrew 
their light, as not daring to behold this 
sad and fearful spectacle. 

dear christians, how should these 
earthen and rocky hearts of ours shake 
and rend in pieces at this meditation ! 
How should our faces be covered with 
darkness, and our joy be turned into 
heaviness ! All these voices, and tears, 
and sweats, and pangs, are for us ; yea, 
from us. Shall the Son of God thus 
smart for our sins, yea, with our sins, and 
shall we not grieve for our own ? Shall 
he weep to us in this market-place, and 
shall we not mourn ? Nay, shall he sweat 
and bleed for us, and shall not we weep 
for ourselves ? Shall he thus lamentably 
shriek out under his Father's wrath, and 

shall not we tremble ? Shall the heavens 
and earth suffer with him, and we suffer 
nothing ? 

I call you not to a weak and idle pity 
of our glorious Saviour : to what pur- 
pose? His injury was our glory. No, no ; 
" Ye daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for 
me, but weep for yourselves :" for our 
sins, that have done this ; not for his 
sorrow that suffered it : not for his pangs 
that were ; but for our own, that should 
have been, and if we repent not, shall be. 
Oh, how grievous, how deadly are our 
sins, that cost the Son of God, besides 
blood, so much torment ! How far are 
our souls gone, that coidd not be ran- 
somed with an easier price ! That, that 
took so much of this infinite Redeemer of 
men, God and man, how can it choose 
but swallow up and confound thy soul, 
which is but finite and sinful ! If thy 
soul had been in his soul's stead, what 
had become of it ? it shall be if his were 
not instead of thine. This weight, that 
lies thus heavy on the Son of God, and 
wrung from him these tears, sweat, blood, 
and these inconceivable groans of his 
afflicted spirit, how should it choose but 
press dow r n thy soul to the bottom of hell ! 
and so it will do : if he have not suffered 
it for thee, thou must and shalt suffer it 
for thyself. 

Go now, thou lewd man, and make thy- 
self merry with thy sins. Laugh at the 
uncleanness or bloodiness of thy youth. 
Thou little know r est the price of a sin ; 
thy soul shall do ; thy Sari our did when 
he cried out, to the amazement of angels 
and horror of men, " My God, my God, 
why hast thou forsaken me ?" 

But now T no more of this ; " It is 
finished :" the greater conflict, the more 
happy victor}*. Well doth he find and 
feel of his Father w*hat his type said be- 
fore, " He will not chide always, nor keep 
his anger for ever." It is fearful ; but in 
him, short : eternal to sinners ; short to 
his Son, in whom the Godhead dw r elt 
bodily. Behold this storm, wherewith 
all the powers of the world were shaken, 
is now over. The elders, pharisees, 
Judas, the soldiers, priests, witnesses, 
judges, thieves, executioners, devils, 
have all tired themselves in vain vrith 
their own malice : and he triumphs over 
them all upon the throne of his cross : 
his enemies are vanquished, his Father 
satisfied, his soul with this word at rest 
and glory ; " It is finished." Now there 
is no more betraying, agonies, arraign- 



ments, scourging, scoffing, crucifying, 
conflicts, terrors ; all is finished. 

Alas, beloved, and will we not let the 
Son of God be at rest ? Do we now again 
go about to fetch him out of his glory, 
to scorn and crucify him ? I fear to say 
it : God's spirit dare and doth ; " They 
crucify again to themselves the Son of 
God, and make a mock of him :" to them- 
selves, not in himself: that, they cannot : 
it is no thank to them ; they would do it. 
See and consider : the notoriously sinful 
conversations of those, that should be 
christians, offer violence unto our glorified 
Saviour : they stretch their hand to hea- 
ven and pull him down from his throne 
to his cross : they tear him with thorns, 
pierce him with nails, load him with re- 
proaches. Thou hatest the Jews, spittest 
at the name of Judas, railest on Pilate, 
j condemnest the cruel butchers of Christ ; 
yet thou canst blaspheme and swear him 
quite over, curse, swagger, lie, oppress, 
boil with lust, scoff, riot, and livest like a 
debauched man ; yea, like a human beast ; 
yea, like an unclean devil. Cry Hosanna 
as long as thou wilt, thou art a Pilate, a 
Jew, a Judas, an executioner of the Lord 
of Life; and so much greater shall thy 
judgment be, by how much thy light and 
Ms glory is more. 

O beloved, is it not enough that he died 
once for us ? Were those pains so light 
that we should every day redouble them ? 
Is this the entertainment that so gracious 
a Saviour hath deserved of us by dying ? 
Is this the recompence of that infinite 
love of his, that thou shouldest thus 
cruelly vex and wound him with thy sins? 
Every of our sins is a thorn, and nail, and 
spear to him. While thou pourest down 
thy drunken carouses, thou givest thy 
Saviour a potion of gall : while thou de- 
spisest his poor servants, thou spittest on 
his face : while thou puttest on thy proud 
dresses and liftest up thy vain heart with 
high conceits, thou settest a crown of 
thorns on his head : while thou wringest 
and oppressest his poor children, thou 

whippest him and drawest blood of his 
hands and feet. Thou hypocrite, how 
darest thou offer to receive the sacrament 
of God with that hand which is thus im- 
brued with the blood of him whom thou 
receivest ? In every ordinary, thy profane 
tongue walks in the disgrace of the reli- 
gious and conscionable. Thou makest no 
scruple of thine own sins, and scornest 
those that do : not to be wicked is crime 
enough. Hear him that saith, " Saul, Saul, 
why persecutest thou me ?" Saul strikes 
at Damascus ; Christ suffers in heaven. 
Thou strikest ; Christ Jesus smarteth and 
will revenge. These are the afterings of 
Christ's sufferings. In himself it is 
finished ; in his members it is not till the 
world be finished. We must toil, and 
groan, and bleed, that we may reign : if 
he had not done so, it had not been 
finished. This is our warfare : this is the 
region of our sorrow and death. Now 
are we set upon the sandy pavement of 
our theatre, and are matched with all 
sorts of evils ; evil men, evil spirits, evil 
accidents ; and, which is worst, our own 
evil hearts ; temptations, crosses, perse- 
cutions, sicknesses, wants, infamies, death : 
all these must, in our courses, be en- 
countered by the law of our profession. 
What should we do but strive and suffer, 
as our General hath done, that we may 
reign as he doth ; and once triumph in 
our consammatum est ? God and his an- 
gels sit upon the scaffolds of heaven, and 
behold us : our crown is ready : our day 
of deliverance shall come ; yea, our re- 
demption is near, when all tears shall be 
wiped from our eyes ; and we that have 
sown in tears shall reap in joy. In the 
mean time let us possess our souls, not in 
patience only, but in comfort : let us 
adore and magnify our Saviour in his 
sufferings, and imitate him in our own : 
our sorrows shall have an end ; our joys 
shall not: our pains shall soon be finished; 
our glory shall be finished, but never 
ended. Joseph Hall. 


"the ever-memorable John Hales of Eton" was born at Bath, on the 19th of April 
1584 ; he was at school at Mells and at Killmaston in Somersetshire, entered at Cor- 
pus Christi College, Oxford, in the year 1597, and for some time was Greek professor 
of the University. In 1613 he was admitted a fellow of Eton College. In 1618 he 



attended, as the chaplain of the English ambassador, at the synod of Dort,in Holland, 
which had been convened, by the request of James the First, to decide on the points 
in dispute between the Calvinists and the Arminians. He has given in his letters 
an account of the proceedings of the synod. In 1644, while the civil war was raging, 
Hales, who was then bursar of Eton, in order to preserve the writings and keys of the 
college, hid himself for nine weeks and spent in that time only sixpence a week, 
living upon bread and beer, and lying so near the college that he used to say those 
who searched for him might have smelt him if he had eaten garlick. Being turned 
out of his fellowship for refusing to take the engagement to be faithful to the common- 
wealth, he became a private tutor, and afterwards supported himself by the sale of 
part of his library, the greatest and best private collection of his time. He died on 
the 19th of May 1656, and was buried in Eton churchyard. 

Hales was renowned for his learning and virtues, for his contempt of money and 
his liberality to the poor, and was highly esteemed by men of all classes and opinions. 
He was an advocate for the right of private judgment, denied the power of councils 
and synods to bind men's consciences, desired to bring all christians into one com- 
munion, and thought that pride and passion, more than conscience, separated 
them. He would often say that he would renounce the religion of the church of 
England to-morrow, if it obliged him to believe that any other christian should be 
finally condemned ; and that nobody would so conclude of another man who did not 
wish him so. Lord Clarendon concludes his character thus : " he was one of the 
least men in the kingdom, and one of the greatest scholars in Europe." 


Let us a little examine the causes and 
pretences which are brought by them who 
call for trial by single combat. The 
causes are usually two : first, disdain to 
seem to do or suffer anything for fear of 
death : secondly, point of honour, and 
not to suffer any contumely and indignity, 
especially if it bring with it disreputation 
and note of cowardice. For the first, 
disdain to fear death : I must confess I 
have often wondered with myself how 
men durst die so ventrously, except they 
were sure they died well : in other things 
which are learnt by practising, if we mis- 
take, we may amend it ; for the error of 
a former action may be corrected in the 
next : we learn then by erring, and men 
come at length not to err, by having often 
erred : but no man learns to die by prac- 
tising it ; we die but once, and a fault 
committed then can never afterwards be 
amended, because the punishment imme- 
diately follows upon the error. To die is 
an action of that moment, that we ought 
to be very well advised when we come to 
it : ab hoc momento pendet aternitas, 
you may not look back upon the opinion 
of honour and reputation which remains 
behind you : but rather look forward 
upon that infinite space of eternity, either 

of bliss or bale, which befals us immedi- 
ately after our last breath. To be loth to die 
upon every slight occasion , is not a necessary 
sign of fear and cowardice : he that knew 
what life is and the time use of it, had he 
many lives to spare, yet would he be loth 
to part with one of* them upon better 
terms than those. Our books tell us, 
that Aristippus, a philosopher, being at 
sea in a dangerous tempest, and betraying 
some fear, when the weather was cleared 
up, a desperate ruffian came and up- 
braided him with it, and tells him that it 
was a shame, that he professing wisdom 
should be afraid of his life, whereas himself, 
having had no such education, expressed 
no agony or dread at all. To whom the 
philosopher replied, there was some dif- 
ference between them two : " I know," 
saith he, " my life may be profitable many 
ways, and therefore am I loth to lose it ; 
but because of your life you know little 
profit, little good can be made, you care 
not how easily you part with it." Be- 
loved, it may be justly suspected, that 
they who esteem thus lightly of their 
lives, are but worthless and unprofitable 
men : and our own experience tells us, 
that men who are prodigal of their money 
in taverns and ordinaries, are close-handed 
enough when either pious uses or ne- 
cessary and public expense requires their 



liberality ; I have not heard that prodigals 
ever built churches. So these men that 
are so prodigal of their lives in base quar- 
rels, peradventure would be cowardly 
enough if either public service or religion 
did call for their help ; I scarcely believe 
any of them would die martyrs, if the 
times so required it. Beloved, I do not 
go about to persuade any man to fear 
death, but not to contemn life ; life is the 
greatest blessing God gives in this world, 
and did men know the worth of it, they 
would never so rashly venture the loss of 
it : but now lightly prizing both their 
own and others' blood, they are easily 
moved to shed it ; as fools are easily won 
to part with jewels, because they know 
not how to value them. We must deal 
with our lives as we do with our money, 
we must not be covetous of it, desire life 
for no other use but to live, as covetous 
persons desire money only to have it : 
neither must we be prodigal of life and 
trifle it away upon every occasion ; but 
we must be liberal of our lives, know 
upon what occasion to spare, upon what 
occasion to spend them. To know where, 
and when, and in what cases to offer our- 
selves to die, is a thing of greater skill 
than a great part of them suppose, who 
pretend themselves most forward to do it. 
For brutishly to run upon and hasten 
unto death is a thing that many men can 
do, and we see that brute beasts many 
times will run upon the spears of such as 
pursue them ; but wisely to look into and 
weigh every occasion, and as judgment 
and true discretion shall direct ; so to 
entertain a resolution either of life or 
death, this were true fortitude and mag- 
nanimity. And indeed this prodigality 
and contempt of life is the greatest ground 
of this quarrellous and fighting humour ; 
there is a kind of men, who, because they 
contemn their own lives, make themselves 
lords and commanders of other men's, 
easily provoking others to venture their 
blood, because they care not how they 
lose their own. Few places of great resort 
are without these men, and they are the 
greatest occasioners of bloodshed, you 
may quickly know them ; there are few 
quarrels wherein they are not either prin- 
cipals or seconds, or some way or another 
will have a part in them. Might there 
be public order taken for the restraint 
of such men that make a practice of 
quarrelling, and because they contemn 
their own lives, carry themselves so in- 
solently and imperiously towards others : 

it will prevent much mischief, and free 
the land of much danger of blood-guilti- 

The second cause which is much alleged 
in defence of duels, I told you was point 
of honour, a conceit that it is dishonour- 
able for men of place and fashion quietly 
to digest and put up contumely and 
disgrace ; and this they take to be a rea- 
son of that authority and strength as that 
it must admit of no dispensation. For 
answer ; first the true fountain and ori- 
ginal of quarrel are of another kind, and 
honour is abused as a pretence : the first 
occasioners of a great part of them are 
indeed very dishonourable : let there an 
inventory be taken of all the challenges 
that have been made for some time past, 
and you shall find that the greatest part 
by far were raised in taverns or dicing- 
houses ; drinking and gaming, these are 
those rotten bones that lie hid under this 
painted sepulchre and title of honour. 

Lastly, to conclude, it is a part of our 
profession, as we are christians, to suffer 
wrong and disgrace. Therefore to set up 
another doctrine, and teach that honour 
may plead prescription against Christ's 
prescripts, and exempt you from patient 
enduring of contumely and disgrace, you 
withstand Christ and deny your vocation, 
and therefore are unavoidably apostates. 
But w T e lose our labour who give young 
men and unsettled persons good advice 
and counsel; the civil magistrate must 
lay to his hand and pity them who want 
discretion to pity themselves ; for as bees, 
though they fight very fiercely, yet if you 
cast a little dust amongst them are pre- 
sently parted ; so the enacting and exe- 
cuting some few good laws would quickly 
allay this greatness of stomach and fight- 
ing humour. How many have been cen- 
sured for schismaticks and hereticks, only 
because by probable consequence, and afar 
off they seem to overthrow some christian 
principle ! But here are men who walk 
in our streets and come to our churches 
who openly oppose that great point of 
Christianity which concerns our patience, 
and yet for their restraint no synod is 
called, no magistrate stirs, no church cen- 
sure is pronounced. The church of Rome 
hath long ago, to the disgrace of the re- 
formed churches, shut them out of the 
number of christians, and pronounced 
them all excommunicated persons, who 
upon what pretence soever durst enter the 
field for duel and single combat. 

John Hales. 




He that shall look into the acts of 
christians as they are recorded by more 
indifferent writers, shall easily perceive 
that all that were christians were not 
saints. But this is the testimony of an 
enemy. Yea, but have not our friends 
taken up the same complaint ? Doubtless, 
if it had been the voice and approbation 
of the bridegroom, that secular state and 
authority had belonged to the church, 
either of due or of necessity, the Mends 
of the bridegroom hearing it would have 
rejoiced at it ; but it is found they have 
much sorrowed at it. St. Hilary, much 
offended with the opinion that even ortho- 
dox bishops of his time had taken up that 
it was a thing very necessary for the church 
to lay hold on the temporal sword, in a 
tract of his against Auxentius the Arian 
bishop of Milan, thus plainly bespeaks 
them : — " And first of all I must needs 
pity the labour of our age, and bewail the 
fond opinions of the present times, by 
which men suppose the arm of flesh can 
much advantage God, and strive to defend 
by secular ambition the church of Christ. 
I beseech you, bishops, you that take your- 
selves so to be, whose authority in preach- 
ing of the Gospel did the apostles use ? 
By the help of what powers preached they 
Christ, and turned almost all nations from 
idols to God ? Took they unto themselves 
any honour out of princes' palaces, who, 
after their stripes, amid their chains in 
prison, sung praises unto God? Did St. 
Paul, when he was made a spectacle in the 
theatre, summon together the churches of 
Christ by the edicts and writs of kings ? 
'Tis likely he had the safe conduct of 
Nero, or Vespasian, or Decius, through 
whose hate unto us the confession of the 
faith grew more famous. Those men who 
maintained themselves with their own 
hands and industry, whose solemn meet- 
ings were in parlours and secret closets, 
who travelled through villages and towns, 
and whole countries by sea and land, in 
spite of the prohibition of kings and coun- 
cils. 'Tis to be thought that these had 
the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Did 
not the power of God sufficiently manifest 
itself above man's hate, when by so much 
the more Christ was preached, by how 
much he was forbidden to be taught. 
But now, which is a grief to think, dust 
and earth's approbation gives countenance 
to the sacred faith : whilst means are 

made to join ambitious titles to the name 
of Christ, Christ hath lost the reputation 
of self-sufficiency. The church now ter- 
rifies with exile and prisons, and constrains 
men to believe her who was wont to find 
no place but in prisons and banishment. 
She depends upon the good acceptation 
of her favourites, who was wont to be 
hallowed in the fear of her persecutors ; 
she now puts priests to flight who was 
formerly propagated by fugitive priests. 
She glories that she is beloved of the 
world, who could never have been Christ's 
except the world had hated her." What 
shall we answer to this complaint ? Our 
enemies are apt to traduce the good things 
in us ; our friends to flatter our vice and 
imbecility : but when our friends and ene- 
mies do both jointly consent to lay open 
our shame, to whose judgment shall we 
appeal, or whither shall we flee ? Whi- 
ther ? Even to thee, Lord Christ, but 
not as to a judge ; too well we know thy 
sentence. Thou hast sent us messengers 
of peace, but we, like Hierusalem, thy an- 
cient love, have not understood the things 
belonging to our peace. Lord, let us 
know them in this our day, and let them 
no longer be hidden from our eyes. Look 
down, Lord, upon thy poor dismembered 
church, rent and torn with discords, and 
even ready to sink. Why should the neu- 
tral or atheist any longer confirm, himself 
in his irreligion by reasons drawn from 
our dissensions ? Or why should any 
greedy-minded worldling prophesy unto 
himself the ruins of thy sanctuary, or hope 
one day to dip his foot in the blood of thy 
church ? We will hope, O Lord (for what 
hinders?), that notwithstanding all sup- 
posed impossibilities, thou wilt one day 
in mercy look down upon thy Sion, and 
grant a gracious interview of friends so 
long divided. Thou that wroughtest that 
great reconciliation between God and man, 
is thine arm waxen shorter ? Was it pos- 
sible to reconcile God to man ? To re- 
concile man to man, is it impossible ? Be 
with those, we beseech thee, to whom the 
persecution of church controversies is com- 
mitted, and like a good Lazarus, drop one 
cooling drop into their tongues, and pens, 
too, too much exasperated each against 
other. And if it be thy determinate will 
and counsel that this abomination of deso- 
lation, standing where it ought not, con- 
tinue unto the end, accomplish thou with 
speed the number of thine elect, and hasten 
the coming of thy son our Saviour, that 
he may himself in person sit and judge, 


and give an end to our controversies, since 
it stands not with any human possibility. 
Direct thy church, Lord, in all her peti- 
tions for peace; teach her wherein her 
peace consists, and warn her from the 
world, and bring her home to thee ; that 
all those that love thy peace may at last 

have the reward of the sons of peace, and 
reign with thee in thy kingdom of peace 
for ever. Grant tbis, God, for tby son's 
sake, Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom with 
thee and the Holy Ghost be ascribed all 
praise, might, majesty and dominion, now 
and for ever. John Hales. 


was born at Stafford on the 9th of August 1593. For some time, ending about the 
year 1624, he was a shop-keeper, whether a linen-draper or man-milliner seems un- 
certain, in the Royal Exchange, London, and afterward in Fleet Street. While he 
lived in Fleet Street he became the friend of Dr. John Donne the poet, who was vicar 
of St. Dunstan's. He married for his second wife a lady of good family, and retired 
in 1643, just when the civil war began, to a small estate near Stafford. In 1653 he 
published the Complete Angler, to which a second part was afterwards added by his 
friend and adopted son Charles Cotton, the author of Virgil Travestie and of a trans- 
lation of Montaigne's Essays. Isaak Walton died on the 15th of December 1683, at 
Winchester, in the house of his son-in-law Dr. Hawkins, and was buried in the 

He wrote, among other works, the lives of five eminent and good men, three of 
whom were his personal friends, but The Complete Angler is the book by which he 
is most known. Treatises may have been since written more useful to the fisherman, 
but in those beauties which endear the Complete Angler to the common reader it is 
not likely to be equalled. Its unaffected simplicity, melody of words, cheerfulness, 
piety, poetic description of gentle quiet country scenes and people, even its quaint- 
ness, are all delightful. It is the very image of Walton's mind, as he tells us in the 
preface to the fifth edition published in 1676, when he was eighty-three years old. 
" The whole discourse is, or rather was, a picture of my own disposition, especially 
in such days and times as I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing with honest 
Nat and R. Roe ; but they are gone, and with them most of my pleasant hours, even 
as a shadow that passeth away and returns not." 

Sir Walter Scott, in reviewing Sir Humphry Davy's Salmonia, — a book written in 
imitation of the Complete Angler, — while he gives high praise to Walton's originality 
and exquisite simplicity, his benevolence and graceful ease of expression, is pleased to 
speak of him as a London shop-keeper, who does not aspire above his sphere in any 
particular, and of his book as a picture of a most cockney -like character ; and, after 
scattering such phrases as — " his brother linen-draper John Gilpin" — " the low cha- 
racter, we had almost said vulgarity, of a picture so little elevated and so homely" — 
tells us that " our modern Piscator (Sir Humphry) is of a different mould, one fami- 
liar equally with the world of books, and those high circles in society, which, in our 
age, aristocratically closed against the pretensions of mere wealth, open so readily to 
distinguished talents and acquirements. His range therefore, both of enjoyment and 
of instruction, is far wider than that of Walton." " The latter carries us no farther 
than the brooks within a short walk of London." " Halieus (Davy), on the contrary, 
transports us to the ornate scenes of Denham-upon-the-Colne, where the river is 
strictly preserved within the park of a wealthy and hospitable proprietor." 


In all this, sir Walter Scott, be it said with reverence, does not show the good 
sense and manly taste which especially belonged to him. Although it is most true 
that Walton did not aspire beyond his proper sphere, yet the familiar Mend of John 
Hales of Eton, of William Chillingworth, of Dr. Donne, of sir Henry Wotton, of 
King bishop of Chichester, of Saunderson bishop of Lincoln, of Morley bishop of 
Winchester, of Morton bishop of Durham, and of Usher archbishop of Armagh, was not 
altogether shut out from the high circles of society. Indeed it has been made matter 
of surprise that, living in a time when the distinctions of rank were severely observed, 
a London shopkeeper should have been on terms of affectionate friendship with men 
so far removed from him in the order of society. The cause is not hard to find. 
Riches and rank were not tilings to which Walton aspired. He loved in his com- 
panions the moral and intellectual qualities which he possessed in common with 
them, and paying cheerfully the honour due to rank, stood on those terms of equality 
with the great on which every man may stand who covets nothing that they can 
give, and neither envies them nor apes them. 

As to being cockney -like and vulgar, if ever man and book were pure from the 
tinge of such a complaint, Walton and his book are. He was born and probably bred 
in the country to which he retired in middle life, and which none could more tho- 
roughly love. It might not be easy to define cockneyism, hut if there is in it any- 
thing of vulgar conceit, of the spirit of exclusiveness which possessed the little girl 
who prized her lace because nobody else in the world could get the least bit of it if 
they were to cry their eyes out, — then cockneyism may, perhaps, be found rather 
among the ornate scenes where the river is strictly preserved within the park of a 
wealthy proprietor, than along the brooks and meadows which Walton paints so well, 
and something at least like it may be found in Salmonia. The party of sir Hum- 
phry being at a lake in Scotland, where " a bold craggy outline and the birch-wood 
below it, and the pines above form a scene somewhat alpine in character," see an 
eagle soaring, and Poietes, " who is to be considered as an enthusiastic lover of nature, 
and partially acquainted with the mysteries of fly-fishing," cries out, " she gives an 
interest to this scene which I hardly expected to have found. Pray are there many 
of these animals in this country?" Again, in another place, "The scenery be- 
gins to improve ; and that cloud-breasted mountain on the left is of the best cha- 
racter of Scotch mountains : these woods likewise are respectable for this northern 
country. I think I see islands also in the distance ; and the quantity of cloud al- 
ways gives effect to this kind of view." Certainly there is nothing in Isaak Walton 
to be compared with such description as this. 

Mr. Hallam, following sir Walter Scott, informs us that sir Humphry Davy " has 
condescended to imitate" Isaak Walton. He neither condescended, nor with the 
least success did he imitate. Isaak Walton carries us with him through the meadows 
and along the pleasant streams, and to the little country inn, and makes us to know 
himself and his homely friends, and to become partakers in their simple pleasures, 
while the condescending imitator gives a cold common-place tourist's description of 
scenery, and the speakers of his dialogue are lifeless puppets, by whose mouths their 
author puts forth a monopolylogue which a lover of Walton may be forgiven for 
thinking a little dull and pedantick. 

An extract from the Complete Angler follows : a second will be found under the 
title of Drama and Dialogue, and a third under that of Natural History. 




Well, scholar, we having still a mile to 
Tottenham High Cross, T will, as we walk 
towards it, in the cool shade of this sweet 
honeysuckle hedge, mention to you some 
of the thoughts and joys that have possess- 
ed my soul since we two met together. 
And these thoughts shall he told you, that 
you also may join with me in thankfulness 
to the giver of every good and perfect gift 
for our happiness. And that our present 
happiness may appear to he the greater, 
and we the more thankful for it, I will 
heg you to consider with me how many 
do, even at this very time, lie under the 
torment of the stone, the gout, and tooth- 
ache; and this we are free from. And 
every misery that I miss is a new mercy, 
and therefore let us he thankful. There 
have heen since we met, others that have 
met disasters of broken limbs ; some have 
been blasted, others thunder-strucken ; 
and we have been freed from these, and 
all those many other miseries that threaten 
human nature ; let us therefore rejoice 
and be thankful. Nay, which is a far 
greater mercy, we are free from the un- 
supportable burden of an accusing, tor- 
menting conscience ; a misery that none 
can bear, and therefore let us praise Him 
for his preventing grace, and say, every 
misery that I miss is a new mercy : nay, 
let me tell you, there be many that have 
forty times our estates, that would give 
the greatest part of it to be healthful and 
cheerful like us ; who, with the expense 
of a little money have eat and drank, and 
laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept 
securely ; and rose next day, and cast 
away care, and sung, and laughed, and 
angled again; which are blessings rich 
men cannot purchase with all their money. 
Let me tell you, scholar, I have a rich 
neighbour, that is always so busy that he 
has no leisure to laugh ; the whole busi- 
ness of his life is to get money, and more 
money, that he may still get more and 
more money ; he is still drudging on, and 
says, that Solomon says, " The diligent 
hand maketh rich ;" and it is true, indeed, 
but he considers not that 'tis not in the 
power of riches to make a man happy ; 
for it was wisely said by a man of great 
observation, " That there be as many mise- 
ries beyond riches as on this side them ;" 
and yet God deliver us from pinching po- 
verty; and grant, that having a compe- 

tency, we may be content and thankful. 
Let not us repine, or so much as think 
the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see 
another abound with riches ; when, as 
God knows, the cares that are the keys 
that keep those riches, hang often so hea- 
vily at the rich man's girdle, that they 
clog him with wxary days and restless 
nights, even when others sleep quietly. 
We see but the outside of the rich man's 
happiness ; few consider him to be like 
the silkworm, that when she seems to 
play, is at the very same time spinning 
her own bowels and consuming herself. 
And this many rich men do ; loading them- 
selves with corroding cares to keep what 
they have, probably, unconscionably got. 
Let us therefore be thankful for health 
and competence, and above all, for a quiet 

Let me tell you, scholar, that Diogenes 
walked on a day with his friend to see a 
country fair, w T here he saw ribbons and 
looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fid- 
dles, and hobby-horses, and many other 
gimcracks ; and having observed them 
and all the other fmnimbruns that make 
a complete country fair, he said to his 
friend, " How many things are there in 
this world of which Diogenes hath no 
need?" And truly it is so, or might be 
so, with very many who vex and toil them- 
selves to get what they have no need of. 
Can any man charge God that he hath not 
given him enough to make his life happy ? 
No, doubtless ; for nature is content with 
a little; and yet you shall hardly meet 
with a man that complains not of some 
want ; though he indeed wants nothing 
but his will, it may be nothing . but his 
will of his poor neighbour, for not wor- 
shipping, or not flattering him ; and thus 
when we might be happy and quiet, we 
create trouble to ourselves. I have heard 
of a man that was angry with himself be- 
cause he was no taller, and of a woman 
that broke her looking-glass because it 
would not show her face to be as young 
and handsome as her next neighbour's 
was. And I knew another to whom God 
had given health and plenty ; but a wife 
that nature had made peevish, and her 
husband's riches had made purse-proud, 
and must, because she was rich, and for 
no other virtue, sit in the highest pew in 
the church, wdiich being denied her, she 
engaged her husband into a contention 
for it ; and at last into a law-suit with a 
dogged neighbour, who was as rich as he, 
I and had a wife as peevish and purse- 



proud as the other ; and this law-suit he- 
got higher oppositions and actionable 
words, and more vexations and law-suits ; 
for you must remember that both were 
rich, and must therefore have their wills. 
Well, this wilful purse-proud law-suit 
lasted during the life of the first husband; 
after which, his wife vexed and chid, and 
chid and vexed, till she also chid and 
vexed herself into her grave ; and so the 
wealth of these poor rich people was curst 
into a punishment ; because they wanted 
meek and thankful hearts ; for those only 
can make us happy. I knew a man that 
had health and riches, and several houses, 
all beautiful and ready furnished, and 
would often trouble himself and family to 
be removing from one house to another ; 
and being asked by a friend why he re- 
moved so often from one house to an- 
other, replied, " It was to find content 
in some one of them." But his friend 
knowing his temper, told him if he would 
find content in any of his houses he must 
leave himself behind him ; for content 
will never dwell but in a meek and quiet 
soul. And this may appear if we read 
and consider what our Saviour says in St. 
Matthew's Gospel; for he there says, 
" Blessed be the merciful, for they shall 
obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in 
heart, for they shall see God. Blessed be 
the poor in spirit, for theirs is the king- 
dom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, 
for they shall possess the earth." Not 
that the meek shall not also obtain mercy 
and see God, and be comforted, and at 
last come to the kingdom of heaven ; but 
in the meantime he, and he only, pos- 
sesses the earth as he goes towards that 
kingdom of heaven, by being humble and 
cheerful, and content with what his good 
God has allotted him ; he has no turbu- 
lent, repining, vexatious thoughts, that he 
deserves better; nor is vexed when he 
sees others possessed of more honour, or 
more riches than his wise God has allotted 
for his share ; but he possesses what he 

has with a meek and contented quietness ; 
such a quietness as makes his very dreams 
pleasing, both to God and himself. 

My honest scholar, all this is told to 
incline you to thankfulness ; and to in- 
cline you the more, let me tell you that 
the prophet David was said to be a man 
after God's own heart,because he abounded 
more with thankfulness than any other 
that is mentioned in holy scripture, as may 
appear in his book of Psalms, where there 
is such a commixture of his confessing of 
his sins andunworthiness, and such thank- 
fulness for God's pardon and mercies, as 
did make him to be accounted, even by 
God himself, to be a man after Ms own 
heart ; and let us in that labour to be as 
like him as we can ; let not the blessings 
we receive daily from God make us not to 
value, or not to praise him, because they 
be common ; let not us forget to praise 
Mm for the innocent mirth and pleasure 
we have met with since we met together : 
what would a blind man give to see the 
pleasant rivers, and meadows, and flowers, 
and fountains, that we have met with 
since we met together ? I have been told 
that if a man that was born blind could 
obtain to have his sight for but only one 
hour during his whole Hfe, and should, at 
the first opening of Ms eyes, fix his sight 
upon the sun when it was in its full glory, 
either at the rising or setting of it, he 
would be so transported and amazed, and 
so admire the glory of it, that he would 
not willingly turn his eyes from that first 
ravishing object, to behold all the other 
various beauties this world could present 
to him. And this, and many other like 
blessings, we enjoy daily ; and for most of 
them, because they be so common, most 
men forget to pay their praises ; but let 
not us, because it is a sacrifice so pleasing 
to him that made that sun, and us, and 
still protects us, and gives us flowers, and 
showers, and stomachs, and meat, and 
content, and leisure to go a fishing. 

Isaak Walton. 


was born at Oxford in the month of October 1602, educated at a private school in 
the town, and, in the year 1618, admitted a scholar of Trinity College. The temper 
of his mind was subtle and acute, and he gave himself up to disputation, until, from 
the habit of always reasoning, he came to doubt everything, and sought refuge from 
doubt by assenting to the infalhbility of the Church of Rome. He found no rest 

I 2 



there, turned again, became one of her most powerful antagonists, and overcoming 
some scruples to the subscription of the thirty-nine Articles, took holy orders from 
the Church of England. He was a zealous royalist, and accompanied lord Clarendon 
to Charles I. at York. As he deemed all war to be unlawful, it did not seem easy to 
hold fast his integrity and serve his king in the field ; yet the peculiar turn of Chil- 
lingworth's mind enabled him to do so. He invented an engine which he thought 
would give so great an advantage to the side which used it, as must put a speedy end 
to the war. This engine was a portable breastwork for the shelter of troops in all 
encounters and assaults in the field. He carried it to the king's army commanded by 
lord Hopton in Hampshire, on the border of Sussex : but the invention did not prove 
the sure defence which he had hoped, and Chillingworth was forced to run away with 
his breastwork and take shelter in Arundel Castle. After a siege, in which he suffered 
severe hardship, the castle yielded ; he was thrown into prison, died on the 30th of 
January 1644, and was buried in Chichester Cathedral. 

Chillingworth, like Hales, was a good hater of persecution. " Take away tyranny," 
said he, " and restore Christians to their just and full liberty of captivating their un- 
derstanding to scripture only ; and as rivers, when they have a free passage, run all to 
the ocean, so it may well be hoped, by God's blessing, that universal liberty, thus 
moderated, may quickly restore Christendom to truth and unity." 

Lord Clarendon tells us that Chillingworth was of a stature little superior to Hales, 
and it was an age in which there were many great and wonderful men of that size. 
He adds, that poor Mr. Chillingworth was most barbarously treated by the rebels, — 
meaning the soldiers of sir William Waller, general of the parliament, and especially 
by that clergy which followed them : — but this is contrary to the truth. " Not being 
able to go to London with the garrison, he was conveyed to Chichester, which favour 
he obtained at the request of his great adversary, Mr. Francis Cheynell, a bigoted 
presbyterian divine, who accidentally met him in Arundel Castle, and frequently 
visited him in Chichester, till he died." These are the words of Dr. Birch, in his 
Life of Chillingworth, and that they are true is the conclusion at which Dr. Johnson 
arrives in his Life of Cheynell. 


The patient bearing and willing for- 
giveness of offences is a duty so seriously, 
so incessantly, sometimes in plain words, 
sometimes in parables, all manner of ways, 
upon all occasions, urged by our Saviour, 
that we cannot so much as pray but we 
must be forced to acknowledge obedience 
to this law : " Forgive us, as we forgive ;" 
yea, so boundlessly, and without all re- 
strictions or reservations is it enjoined, 
that when, as Peter thought it fair to 
have it limited to a certain number, and 
proposed seven, as in his opinion reason- 
able and convenient, " No," saith our Sa- 
viour, " forgive not until seven times, but 
until four hundred four score and ten 
times." And if he could have imagined 
that it were possible for a man to have 
exceeded this number also in injuries, 
without question he would not have left 
there neither. 

But how is this doctrine received in the 
world? What counsel would men, and 
those none of the worst sort, give thee in' 
such a case ? How ( would the soberest 
discreetest, well-bred Christian advise 
thee ? Why thus : If thy brother or thy 
neighbour have offered thee an injury, or 
an affront, forgive him ? By no means ; 
thou art utterly undone, and lost in thy 
reputation with the world, if thou dost 
forgive him. What is to be done then ? 
Why, let not thy heart take rest, let all 
other business and employment be laid 
aside, till thou hast his blood. How ! a 
man's blood for an injurious, passionate 
speech, for a disdainful look ? Nay, that 
is not all; that thou mayst gain among 
men the reputation of a discreet, well- 
tempered murderer, be sure thou killest 
him not in passion, when thy blood is hot 
and boiling with the provocation ; but 
proceed with as great temper and settled- 
ness of reason, with as much discretion 



and preparedness, as thou wouldst to the 
communion : after some several days' 
respite, that it may appear it is thy reason 
guides thee, and not thy passion, invite 
him mildly and courteously into some re- 
tired place, and there let it be determined 
whether his blood or thine shall satisfy 
the injury. 

Oh thou holy Christian religion ! whence 
is it that thy children have sucked this 
inhuman, poisonous blood, these raging, 
fiery serpents ? For if we shall inquire of 
the heathen, they will say they have not 
learned this from us ; or of the Mahomet- 
ans, they will answer, we are not guilty 
of it. Blessed God ! that it should be- 
come a most sure, settled course for a 
man to run into danger and disgrace with 
the world, if he shall dare to perform a 
commandment of Christ, which is as ne- 
cessary for him to do, if he have any 
hopes of attaining heaven, as meat and 
drink is for the maintaining of life ! that 
ever it should enter into Christian hearts 
to walk so curiously and exactly contrary 
unto the ways of God ! that whereas he 
sees himself every day and hour almost, 
contemned and despised by thee, who art 
his servant, his creature ; upon whom he 
might, without all possible imputation of 
unrighteousness, pour down all the vials 
of his wrath and indignation ; yet he not- 
withstanding is patient and long-suffering 
towards thee, hoping that his long-suffer- 
ing may lead thee to repentance, and be- 
seeching thee daily by his ministers to be 
reconciled unto him ; and yet thou, on 
the other side, for a distempered, passion- 
ate speech, or less, should take upon thee 
to send thy neighbour's soul, or thine 
own, or likely both, clogged and oppressed j 
with all your sins unrepented of (for how \ 
can repentance possibly consist with such j 
a resolution ?) before the tribunal seat of ; 
God, to expect your final sentence, utterly 
depriving thyself of all the blessed means 
which God has contrived for thy salva- 
tion, and putting thyself in such an estate, 
that it shall not be in God's power almost 
to do thee any good. Pardon, I beseech 
you, my earnestness, almost intemperate- 
ness, seeing it hath proceeded from so 
just, so warrantable a ground; and, since 

it is in your power to give rules of honour 
and reputation to the whole kingdom*, do 
not you teach others to be ashamed of 
this inseparable badge of your religion, 
charity, and forgiving of offences ; give 
men leave to be Christians without danger 
or dishonour ; or, if religion will not work 
with you, yet let the laws of that state 
wherein you live, the earnest desires and 
care of your righteous prince, prevail with 
you. William Chillingworth. 


"Whosoever thou art that professest thy- 
self a Christian, thou believest that God, 
whom thou servest, is present even-where, 
both in heaven and earth, insomuch that 
it is altogether impossible for thee to ex- 
clude him from thy company; whereso- 
ever thou goest he will pursue thee ; 
though thou should clothe thyself with 
darkness, as it were with a garment, the 
darkness would be to him as the noon- 
day ; and though it were possible for thee 
to deceive the eyes and observation of 
men and angels, yea, even of thine own 
conscience, yet to him thou wouldst be 
open and transparent, yv/xvos /cat rerpa- 
X^XiT ( uevos, as it were, dissected, and 
having the very entrails exposed to his 

Thou canst hide, therefore, nothing 
which thou doest from Iris eyes ; he taketh 
notice of every word which thou speakest, 
he hears even the very whispering of thy 
thoughts ; and all this thou sayest thou 
acknowledgest. Out of thy own mouth 
shalt thou be condemned, thou wicked 
servant : darest thou then make thy master 
a witness of thy rebellion and disobedi- 
ence ? "When thou art about the fulfilling 
of any of thine ungodly lusts, thou re- 
tirest thyself from company, and art 
afraid of the faces of men ; thou abhor- 
rest the light, and yet darest outface him 
whose eyes are ten thousand times brighter 
than the sun. Thou wouldst not have 
the confidence to commit fiithiness if thy 
friend were in company, and yet what in- 
jury is done to him by it? What com- 
mandment of his dost thou transgress in 

* This sermon seems to have been preached before the Lords. Chillingworth spake boldly, for as 
yet, no English peer and judge had pronounced that it was a gross insult to a magistrate to tell him 
that he was not in earnest when he challenged his neighbour to join in committing a capital felony. 
We know that there is one law for rich and poor, and that a judge, above all men, does not fondle pet 
felonies : yet it would startle us to hear a hind gravely rebuked from the judgment-seat for having 
told his fellow that he could not have been in earnest when he asked him to help steal a side of bacon to 
fill their bellies, or two shirts from a hedge to cover their nakedness. 



it ? Or, if thou didst, what power or au- 
thority has he over thee to punish thee ? 
Thou wouldst be ashamed to commit such 
a sin if thy servant were by, one whom 
thou art so far from being afraid of, that 
himself, his words, almost his very 
thoughts are in thy power; nay, if a 
child were in company, thou wouldst not 
have the face to do it. 

Thou canst not deny but respect to a 
friend, to a servant, even to a child, will 
withhold thee from such practices; and 
yet withal confessest, that Almighty God, 
whom thou professest to serve, to fear 
and to love, that he all the while looks 
upon thee and observes thee ; his eyes are 
never removed from thee, and, which is 
worse, though thou mayst endeavour to 
forget and blot such actions out of thy 
remembrance, yet it is impossible he 
should ever forget them ; he keeps a re- 
gister of all thy sins, which no time shall 
ever be able to deface ; and what will it 
then profit thee to live a close concealed 
sinner from the world, or to gain amongst 
men the reputation of a devout religious 
Christian, when in the mean time thine 
own heart and conscience shall condemn 
thee ? nay, when Almighty God, " who is 
greater than thy heart, and knoweth all 
things," when he shall be able to object 
unto thee all thy close ungodly projects, 
all thy bosom private lusts ? Yea, when 
that conceit (wherein thou didst so much 
please thyself), of being able to delude 
and blind the observation of the world, 
shall nothing avail thee ; but whatsoever 
mischiefs thou hast contrived in thy 
closet, whatsoever abominations thou hast 
practised in thy bed, all these, with each 
aggravating circumstance, shall be dis- 
covered in the presence of all men, and 
angels, and devils ; when Satan, whom 
before thou madest an instrument and 
bawd unto thy lusts, to whose counsels 
and suggestions thou before wouldst only 
hearken, shall be the most forward and 
eager to appeach thee. 

When thou art brought to such an exi- 
gent as this (which, without a timely un- 
feigned repentance, as sure as there is a 
God in heaven thou shalt at last be 
brought to), what will then thy orthodox 
opinions do thee good ? What will it then 
profit thee to say, thou never didst main- 
tain any impious dishonourable tenets 
concerning God, or any of his glorious 
attributes ? Yea, how happy hadst thou 
been, if, worse than the most ignorant 
heathenish atheist, no thought or con- 
sideration of God had entered into thy 
heart ! For this professing thyself a 
Christian, rightly instructed in the know- 
ledge of God, will prove heavier to thee 
than a thousand mill-stones hanged about 
thy neck, to sink thee into the bottom of 
that comfortless lake of fire and brim- 
stone. For, for example, what a strange 
plea would it be for a murderer to say, I 
confess I have committed such or such a 
murder, but all the excuse which I can 
allege for myself is, that I was well studied 
in the laws which forbade murder, and I 
knew that my judge, who tied me to the 
observance of this law, upon pain of death, 
was present, and observed me when I 
committed the fact ? Surely it would be 
more tolerable for him to say, I never 
heard of any such law or judge ; or, if I 
had been told of such things, I gave but 
little heed to the report, I did not at all 
believe it. For though this plea will be 
very insufficient to acquit the malefactor, 
yet it will be much more advantageous 
than the former ; for what w r ere that, but 
to flout the judge to his face, and to pre- 
tend a respectful worthy opinion, for this 
end, that his contempt and negligence in 
performing his commandments may be 
more extreme and inexcusable, and, by 
consequence, without all hope or expecta- 
tion of pardon ? I need make no applica- 
tion of the example, the similitude doth 
sufficiently apply itself. 

William Chillingworth. 


the author of Paradise Lost, was born in Bread-street, London, on the 9th of De- 
cember 1608. He was educated at St. Paul's School, London, and at Christ's Col- 
lege, Cambridge. On leaving the University he passed five years at his father's house 
at Horton, near Colnbrook, in Buckinghamshire, and there wrote Comus, Lycidas, 
and probably L'Allegro and II Penseroso. In 1638 he visited France and Italy, re- 
maining absent from England about fifteen months. On his return he opened a school in 



St. Bride's Churchyard, Fleet-street, and removed successively to Aldersgate-street, to 
the Barbican and to High Holborn. In 1641 he published his earliest prose, the first of 
a succession of treatises against the Church of England. Between that year and the 
restoration of Charles II., he wrote other prose books both in English and Latin. Among 
the former, on the Doctrine of Divorce, on Education, for the Liberty of Unlicensed 
Printing, and a History of England down to the battle of Hastings ; and among the latter, 
A Defence of the People of England as regarded the Civil War, and the Execution of 
Charles I. In writing this last work his eye-sight, already weak, failed, and he be- 
came blind. In 1649 he was made Latin secretary to the council of state of the Com- 
monwealth, and removed to Charing-cross, thence to Scotland-yard, and in 1652 to 
Petty France, where he lived until the Restoration, in a house looking into St. James's 
Park. On the Restoration, in May 1660, he concealed himself at the house of a friend 
in Bartholomew-close, and in the following August was imprisoned by a warrant from 
the House of Commons, but was set at liberty by the end of the year. After this time 
he wrote, in total darkness, the Paradise Lost, which was finished in 1665. 

His dwelling-places during Charles the Second's reign, were in Holborn, near Red 
Lion-square ; in Jewin-street ; and last of all in the Artillery -walk, Bunhill-fields, where 
he died on the 8th of November 1674. He was buried in the chancel of the church of 
St. Giles, Cripplegate. 

Milton was thrice married, and three daughters survived him, of whom only one 
left children. It is generally believed that his last descendant died on the 9th of May 
1754; this, however, is not certain ; one of his grand-children, Caleb Clarke, marry- 
ing in the East Indies, had two sons whose history has not been, but perhaps might 
be, traced. 

The English prose of Milton is framed, as nearly as our language will allow, ac- 
cording to the Latin, and, speaking generally, is laboured and harsh. His invectives 
are coarse and not always powerful, and when he descends to be familiar, or attempts 
to be facetious, he fails ; but he has very many passages of unrivalled majesty and 
beauty, in which lofty thoughts are poured forth in words which alone seem fit to 
utter them. It is scarcely possible to read the extract which follows, or the latter of 
the two which are placed under the title of Philosophy and Policy, without par- 
taking for a while the noble spirit which they breathe, nor without wonder that 
prose could be lifted up to such a pitch of sublimity. 

This first extract is from one of Milton's controversial works, An Apology for Smec- 
tymnuus, a word formed from the initial letters of the names of five presbyterian 
ministers — Stephen Marshall, Edward Calamy, Thomas Young, Mathew Newcomen, 
and William Spurstow, who had written a pamphlet against the government of the 
Church of England. Bishop Hall answered them, and to him Milton replied. Then 
an unnamed writer, who is supposed to have been a son of bishop Hall, attacked 
Milton and slandered him as licentious. The Apology for Smectymnuus followed that 
attack. The other pieces are taken from a treatise entitled A Speech for the Liberty 
of Unlicensed Printing, addressed to the parliament of England in 1644, when the 
presbyterians, who had shaken off the yoke of prelacy, were striving to lay on the 
heavier burden of the covenant, and, for that end, endeavoured to continue a restraint 
upon the liberty of printing. 

THE YOUTH OF MILTON. | centious, I shall entreat to be borne with, 

i though I digress ; and, in a way not often 

But because he would seem privily to : trod, acquaint ye with the sum of my 

point me out to his readers as one whose i thoughts in this matter, through the 

customs of life were not honest, but li- { course of my years and studies. Al- 



though I am not ignorant how hazardous 
it will be to do this under the nose of the 
envious, as it were in skirmish to change 
the compact order, and instead of out- 
ward actions, to bring inmost thoughts 
into front. And I must tell ye, readers, 
that by this sort of men I have been al- 
ready bitten at ; yet shall they not for me 
know how slightly they are esteemed, un- 
less they have so much learning as to read 
what cnreipoKctkia in Greek is, which, to- 
gether with envy, is the common disease 
of those who censure books that are not 
for their reading. "With me it fares now, 
as with him whose outward garment hath 
been injured and ill bedighted ; for having 
no other shift, what help but to turn the 
inside outwards, especially if the lining be 
of the same, or, as it is sometimes, much 
better ? So if my name and outward de- 
meanour be not evident enough to defend 
me, I must make trial if the discovery of 
my inmost thoughts can ; wherein of two 
purposes, both honest and both sincere, 
the one perhaps I shall not miss ; al- 
though I fail to gain belief with others, 
of being such as my perpetual thoughts 
shall here disclose me, I may yet not fail 
of success in persuading some to be such 
really themselves, as they cannot believe 
me to be more than what I fain. I had 
my time, readers, as others have, who 
have good learning bestowed upon them, 
to be sent to those places where the opinion 
was it might be soonest attained ; and, as 
the manner is, was not unstudied in those 
authors which are most commended, 
whereof some were grave orators and 
historians, whose matter methought I 
loved indeed, but as my age then was, so 
I understood them ; others were the 
smooth elegiac poets, whereof the schools 
are not scarce, whom both for the plea- 
sing sound of their numerous writing, 
which in imitation I found most easy and 
most agreeable to nature's part in me, and 
for their matter, which what it is, there 
be few who know not, I was so allured to 
read, that no recreation came to me better 
welcome ; for that it was then those years 
with me which are excused, though they 
be least severe, I may be saved the labour 
to remember ye. Whence having ob- 
served them, to account it the chief glory 
of their wit, in that they were ablest to 
judge, to praise, and by that could esteem 
themselves worthiest to love those high 
perfections, which under one or other 
name they took to celebrate ; I thought 
with myself, by every instinct and pre- 

sage of nature, which is not wont to be 
false, that what emboldened them to this 
task, might with such diligence as they 
used embolden me ; and that what judg- 
ment, wit, or elegance was my share, 
would herein best appear, and best value 
itself, by how much more wisely, and with 
more love of virtue I should choose (let 
rude ears be absent) the object of not un- 
like praises : for albeit these thoughts to 
some will seem virtuous and commend- 
able, to others only pardonable, to a third 
sort perhaps idle ; yet the mentioning of 
them now will end in serious. Nor blame 
it, readers, in those years to propose to 
themselves such a reward, as the noblest 
dispositions above other things in this life 
have sometimes preferred ; whereof not 
to be sensible when good and fair in one 
person meet, argues both a gross and shal- 
low judgment, and withal an ungentle and 
swainish breast ; for by the firm settling 
of these persuasions I became, to my best 
memory, so much a proficient, that if I 
found those authors anywhere speaking 
unworthy things of themselves, or un- 
chaste of those names which before they 
had extolled, this effect it wrought with 
me, from that time forward their art I 
still applauded, but the men I deplored ; 
and above them all, preferred the two 
famous renowners of Beatrice and Laura, 
who never write, but honour of them to 
whom they devote their verse, displaying 
subhme and pure thoughts, without trans- 
gression. And long it was not after, when 
I was confirmed in this opinion, that he 
who would not be frustrate of his hope to 
write well hereafter in laudable things, 
ought himself to be a true poem ; that is, 
a composition and pattern of the best and 
honourablest things, not presuming to 
sing high praises of heroic men or famous 
cities, unless he have in himself the experi- 
ence and the practice of all that which is 
praiseworthy. These reasonings, together 
with a certain niceness of nature, an 
honest haughtiness and self-esteem, either 
of what I was or what I might be (which 
let envy call pride), and lastly that mo- 
desty, whereof though not in the title- 
page, yet here I may be excused to make 
some beseeming profession; all these 
uniting the supply of their natural aid 
together, kept me still above those low 
descents of mind, beneath which he must 
deject and plunge himself, that can agree 
to salable and unlawful prostitutions. 
Next (for hear me out now, readers), that 
I may tell ye whither my younger feet 



wandered ; I betook me among those lofty 
fables and romances which recount, in 
solemn cantos, the deeds of knighthood 
founded by our victorious kings, and from 
hence had in renown over all Christen- 
dom. There I read it in the oath of every 
knight, that he should defend, to the ex- 
pense of his best blood or of his life, if it 
so befel him, the honour and chastity of 
virgin or matron ; from whence even then 
I learned what a noble virtue chastity sure 
must be, to the defence of which so many 
worthies, by such a dear adventure of 
themselves, had sworn ; and if I found in 
the story afterward, any of them, by word 
or deed, breaking that oath, I judged it 
the same fault of the poet as that which 
is attributed to Homer, to have written 
indecent things of the gods : only this my 
mind gave me, that every free and gentle 
spirit, without that oath, ought to be born 
•a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt 
spur, or the laying of a sword upon his 
shoulder to stir him up, both by his coun- 
sel and his arm, to secure and protect the 
weakness of any attempted chastity. So 
that even these books, which to many 
others have been the fuel of wantonness 
and loose living, I cannot think how, un- 
less by divine indulgence, proved to me so 
many incitements, as you have heard, to 
the love and steadfast observation of that 
virtue which abhors the society of bordel- 
loes. Thus, from the laureat fraternity of 
poets, riper years and the ceaseless round 
of study and reading, led me to the shady 
spaces of philosophy, but chiefly to the 
divine volumes of Plato, and his equal 
Xenophon ; where, if I should tell ye 
what I learnt of chastity and love, I mean 
that which is truly so, whose charming 
cup is only virtue, which she bears in her 
hand to those who are worthy (the rest 
are cheated with a thick intoxicating 
potion, which a certain sorceress, the 
abuser of love's name, carries about) ; 
and how the first and chiefest office of 
love begins and ends in the soul, pro- 
ducing those happy twins of her divine 

generation, knowledge and virtue : with 
such abstracted sublimities as these, it 
might be worth your listening, readers, as 
I may one day hope to have ye in a still 
time, when there shall be no chiding. 
Last of all, not in time, but as perfection 
is last, that care was ever had of me, with 
my earliest capacity, not to be neghgently 
trained in the precepts of Christian re- 
ligion, this that I have hitherto related 
hath been to show that, though Christi- 
anity had been but slightly taught me, 
yet a certain reservedness of natural dis- 
position and moral discipline, learnt out 
of the noblest philosophy, was enough to 
keep me in disdain of far less inconti- 
nences than this of the bordello. But 
having had the doctrine of holy scripture, 
unfolding those chaste and high mysteries, 
with timeliest care infused, that " the 
body is for the Lord, and the Lord for 
the body ;" thus also I argued to myself, 
that if unchastity in a woman, whom St. 
Paid terms the glory of man, be such a 
scandal and dishonour, then certainly in a 
man, who is both the image and glory of 
God, it must, though commonly not so 
thought, be much more deflowering and 
dishonourable ; in that he sins both against 
his own body, which is the perfecter sex, 
and his own glory, which is in the woman ; 
and that which is worst, against the image 
and glory of God, which is in himself. 
Nor did I slumber over that place, ex- 
pressing such high rewards of ever accom- 
panying the Lamb, with those celestial 
songs to others inapprehensible, but not 
to those who were not defiled with women, 
which doubtless means fornication ; for 
marriage must not be called a defilement. 
Thus large I have purposely been, that if 
I have been justly taxed with this crime, 
it may come upon me, after all this my 
confession, with a tenfold shame ; but if I 
have hitherto deserved no such oppro- 
brious word or suspicion, I may hereby 
engage myself now openly to the faithful 
observation of what I have professed. 

John Milton. 


bishop of Down and Connor in Ireland, was the son of a barber, and born at Cam- 
bridge in the month of August 1613. He was sent, and as it is said at the age of 
three years, to Perse's Free Grammar School, just then founded in his native town, 
and when thirteen years old was admitted into Caius College as a sizar or poor scholar. 




He received holy orders before he had attained the age of twenty-one, and preaching 
at St. Paul's, London, drew on himself the notice of archbishop Laud, by whose 
advice he entered University College, Oxford, and by whose contrivance, and contrary 
to the college statutes, he was elected a fellow of All Souls. In March 1638, being 
then one of the king's chaplains, Juxon, bishop of London, presented him to the 
rectory of Uppingham in Rutlandshire. After the civil war broke out he joined the 
king at Oxford, and in 1644, being with a division of the royal army at Cardigan, was 
taken prisoner and humanely treated. In 1647 he took a last leave of the king, who 
gave him his watch. During the Commonwealth he was in poverty, until the earl of 
Carbery received him as chaplain into his house at Golden Grove, in the vale of the 
Towey in Caermarthenshire. Frances, countess of Carbery, died while he resided 
there, and in her funeral sermon he praises her as having been clothed with all the 
virtues and graces that adorn her sex. Lord Carbery married again, for the third 
time, and his third wife was Alice Egerton, the lady of Milton's Comus. In the year 
1655 Taylor was twice imprisoned for short periods, on account of some expressions 
in the preface to his Golden Grove, or Guide of Infant Devotion, which were offensive 
to the protector. Chepstow Castle was the place of the second imprisonment. Again, 
in 1658, he was imprisoned in the Tower for a few weeks, by the fault of his book- 
seller, who had prefixed to one of his works a portrait of our Saviour, an act which 
was then forbidden by the law as idolatrous. In the June of the same year he ac- 
cepted a lectureship at Lisburne in Ireland, to which he went with a protection signed 
by Cromwell. After the Restoration he was made bishop of Down and Connor. He 
was not happy in his family ; of two sons, the only two that were left to him, the 
eldest, an officer, was killed in a duel ; the other, whom he had dedicated to the 
church, became the favourite companion of the profligate Villiers, second duke of 
Buckingham of that name, and died a few days before the death of his father, which 
happened at Lisburne, on the 13th of August 1667. Bishop Taylor was buried in the 
cathedral of Dromore. 

He was a man of deep learning and rich in imagination, pure, devout and earnest ; his 
eloquence flows on with less majesty, perhaps, but more sweetness than that of Bar- 
row, and is the most poetic of prose. He was one of the earliest advocates for tole- 
ration, the principles of which he maintained in his Discourse of the Liberty of 
Prophesying ; showing the unreasonableness of prescribing to other men's faith, and 
the iniquity of persecuting differing opinions. 

He is lavish of quotation to a fault, his pages are often a patchwork of Greek, 
Latin and English ; and if his language were less beautiful, it might sometimes be 
thought too copious. In the following extracts from his sermons quotations in the 
learned languages have been generally omitted. 


It is a doctrine perfective of human 
nature, that teaches us to love God and to 
love one another, to hurt no man, and to 
do good to every man ; it propines to us 
the noblest, the highest and the bravest 
pleasures of the world — the joys of charity, 
the rest of innocence, the peace of quiet 
spirits, the wealth of beneficence, and for- 
bids us only to be beasts and to be devils ; 
it allows all that God and nature intended, 
and only restrains the excrescences of 

nature, and forbids us to take pleasure in 
that which is the only entertainment of 
devils, in murders and revenges, malice 
and spiteful words and actions ; it per- 
mits corporal pleasures where they can 
best minister to health and societies, to 
conservation of families and honour of 
communities ; it teaches men to keep then- 
words, that themselves may be secured in 
all their just interests, and to do good to 
others that good may be done to them ; it 
forbids biting one another, that we may 
not be devoured by one another; and 



commands obedience to superiors, that we 
may not be ruined in confusions ; it com- 
bines governments, and confirms all good 
laws, and makes peace, and opposes and 
prevents wars where they are not just and 
where they are not necessary. It is a 
religion that is life and spirit, not consist- 
ing in ceremonies and external amuse- 
ments, but in the sendees of the heart, 
and the real fruit of lips and hands, that 
is, of good words and good deeds ; it bids 
us to do that to God which is agreeable 
to his excellences, that is, worship him 
with the best thing we have, and make all 
things else minister to it ; it bids us to do 
that to our neighbour by which he may 
be better; it is the perfection of the 
natural law, and agreeable to our natural 
necessities, and promotes our natural ends 
and designs ; it does not destroy reason, 
but instructs it in very many things, and 
complies with it in all ; it hath in it both 
heat and light, and is not more effectual 
than it is beauteous ; it promises every- 
thing that we can desire, and yet promises 
nothing but what it does effect ; it pro- 
claims war against all vices, and generally 
does command every virtue ; it teaches us 
with ease to mortify those affections which 
reason durst scarce reprove, because she 
hath not strength enough to conquer ; 
and it does create in us those virtues 
which reason of herself never knew, and 
after they are known, could never ap- 
prove sufficiently ; it is a doctrine in which 
nothing is superfluous or burdensome, nor 
yet is there anything wanting which can 
procure happiness to mankind, or by 
which God can be glorified ; and if wisdom, 
and mercy, and justice, and simplicity, 
and holiness, and purity, and meekness, 
and contentedness, and charity, be images 
of God and rays of divinity, then that 
doctrine in which all these shine so glo- 
riously, and in which nothing else is in- 
gredient, must needs be from God ; and 
that all this is true in the doctrine of 
Jesus needs no other probation but the 
reading the words. 

For that the words of Jesus are con- 
tained in the gospels, that is, in the wri- 
tings of them who were eye-witnesses and 
ear-witnesses of the actions and sermons 
of Jesus, is not at all to be doubted. All 
those excellent things, which singly did 
make famous so many sects of philoso- 
phers, and remarked so many princes of 
their sects, all of them united, and many 
more, which their eyes dark and dim 
could not see, are heaped together in this 

system of wisdom and holiness. Here 
are plain precepts full of deepest mystery ; 
here are the measures of holiness and ap- 
proaches to God described ; obedience and 
conformity, mortification of the body, and 
elevations of the spirit, abstractions from 
earth, and arts of society and union with 
heaven, degrees of excellences, and ten- 
dencies to perfection, imitations of God, 
and conversations with him ; these are 
the heights and descents, upon the plain 
grounds of natural reason and natural re- 
ligion, for there is nothing commanded 
but what our reason by nature ought to 
choose, and yet nothing of natural reason 
taught but what is heightened and made 
more perfect by the Spirit of God; and 
when there is anything in the religion 
that is against flesh and blood, it is only 
when flesh and blood is against us and 
against reason, when flesh and blood either 
would hinder us from great felicity, or 
bring us into great misery. To conclude, 
it is such a law, that nothing can hinder 
men to receive and entertain, but a perti- 
nacious baseness and love to vice, and 
none can receive it but those who resolve 
to be good and excellent ; and if the holy 
Jesus had come into the world with less 
splendour of power and mighty demon- 
strations, yet even the excellency of what 
he taught, makes him alone fit to be the 
master of the world. Jeremy Taylor. 


If we would have our life lengthened, 
let us begin betimes to live in the ac- 
counts of reason and sober counsels of 
religion and the spirit, and then we shall 
have no reason to complain that our abode 
on earth is so short : many men find it 
long enough, and indeed it is so to all 
senses. But when we spend in waste 
what God hath given us in plenty ; when 
we sacrifice our youth to folly, our man- 
hood to lust and rage, our old age to 
covetousness and irreligion, not beginning 
to live till we are to die, designing that 
time to virtue which indeed is infirm to 
everything and profitable to nothing ; then 
we make our lives short, and lust runs 
away with all the vigorous and healthful 
part of it, and pride and animosity steal 
the manly portion, and craftiness and in- 
terest possess old age, we spend as if we 
had too much time, and knew not what 
to do with it ; we fear everything, like 



weak and silly mortals, and desire strangely 
and greedily, as if we were immortal ; we 
complain our life is short, and yet we 
throw away much of it, and are weary of 
many of its parts ; we complain the day 
is long, and the night is long, and we 
want company, and seek out arts to drive 
the time away, and then weep because it 
is gone too soon. But so the treasure of 
the Capitol is but a small estate when 
Csesar comes to finger it, and to pay with 
it all his legions ; and the revenue of all 
Egypt and the eastern provinces was but 
a little sum, when they were to support 
the luxury of Mark Antony and feed the 
riot of Cleopatra ; but a thousand crowns 
is a vast proportion to be spent in the 
cottage of a frugal person, or to feed a 
hermit. Just so is our life : it is too 
short to serve the ambition of a haughty 
prince or a usurping rebel ; too little time 
to purchase great wealth, to satisfy the 
pride of a vain-glorious fool, to trample 
on all the enemies of our just or unjust 
interest ; but for the obtaining virtue, for 
the purchase of sobriety and modesty, for 
the actions of religion, God gave us time 
sufficient, if we make the " outgoings of 
the morning and evening," that is, our 
infancy and old age, to be taken into the 
computations of a man; which we may 
see in the following particulars. 

If our childhood, being first conse- 
crated by forward baptism, be seconded 
by a holy education and a complying obe- 
dience ; if our youth be chaste and tem- 
perate, modest and industrious, proceed- 
ing through a prudent and sober manhood 
to a religious old age, then we have lived 
our whole duration and shall never die, 
but be changed, in a just time, to the pre- 
parations of a better and an immortal life. 

If, besides the ordinary returns of our 
prayers and periodical and festival solem- 
nities, and our seldom communions, we 
would allow to religion and the studies of 
wisdom those great shares that are trifled 
away on vain sorrow, foolish mirth, trou- 
blesome ambition, busy covetousness, 
watchful lust, and impertinent amours, 
and balls, and revellings, and banquets, 
all that which was spent viciously, and 
all that time that lay fallow and without 
employment, our life would quickly 
amount to a great sum. He that hath 
done all his business, and is begotten to 
a glorious hope by the seed of an im- 
mortal spirit, can never die too soon nor 
live too long. Jeremy Taylor. 


The majesty of the Judge and the ter- 
rors of the judgment, shall be spoken 
aloud by the immediate forerunning acci- 
dents, which shall be so great violences 
to the old constitutions of nature, that it 
shall break her very bones, and disorder 
her till she be destroyed. Saint Jerome 
relates, out of the Jews' books, that their 
doctors used to account fifteen days of 
prodigy immediately before Christ's co- 
ming, and to every day assign a wonder, 
any one of which, if we should chance 
to see in the days of our flesh, it would 
affright us into the like thoughts which 
the old world had, when they saw the 
countries round about them covered with 
water and the divine vengeance ; or as 
those poor people near Adria and the 
Mediterranean Sea, when their houses 
and cities are entering into graves, and 
the bowels of the earth rent with convul- 
sions and horrid tremblings. The sea 
(they say) shall rise fifteen cubits above 
the highest mountains, and thence de- 
scend into hollowness and a prodigious 
drought ; and when they are reduced 
again to their usual proportions, then all 
the beasts and creeping things, the mon- 
sters and the usual inhabitants of the sea, 
shall be gathered together, and make 
fearful noises to distract mankind ; the 
birds shall mourn and change their songs 
into threnes and sad accents; rivers of 
fire shall rise from the east to west, and 
the stars shall be rent into threads of 
light, and scatter like the beards of 
comets ; then s"hall be fearful earthquakes, 
and the rocks shall rend in pieces, the 
trees shall distil blood, and the mountains 
and fairest structures shall return into 
their primitive dust ; the wild beasts shall 
leave their dens, and come into the com- 
panies of men, so that you shall hardly 
tell how to call them, herds of men or 
congregations of beasts ; then shall the 
graves open and give up their dead, and 
those which are alive in nature and dead 
in fear, shall be forced from the rocks 
whither they went to hide them, and 
from caverns of the earth, where they 
would fain have been concealed ; because 
their retirements are dismantled, and 
their rocks are broken into wider rup- 
tures, and admit a strange light into their 
secret bowels ; and the men being forced 
abroad into the theatre of mighty horrors, 
shall run up and down distracted and at 



their wits' end ; and then some shall die, 
and some shall be changed, and by this 
time the elect shall be gathered together 
from the four quarters of the world, and 
Christ shall come along with them to 
judgment. These signs, although the 
Jewish doctors reckon them by order and 
a method, concerning which they had no 
other revelation (that appears), nor suffi- 
ciently credible tradition, yet for the main 
parts of the things themselves, the holy 
scripture records Christ's own words, and 
concerning the most terrible of them ; 
the sum of which, as Christ related them, 
and his apostles recorded and explicated, 
is this, " The earth shall tremble, and the 
powers of the heavens shall be shaken, 
the sun shall be turned into darkness and 
the moon into blood ;" that is, there shall 
be strange eclipses of the sun, and fearful 
aspects in the moon, who, when she is 
troubled, looks red like blood ; " the 
rocks shall rend, and the elements shall 
melt with fervent heat. The heavens 
shall be rolled up like a parchment, the 
earth shall be burned with fire, the hiUs 
shall be like wax, for there shall go a fire 
before him, and a mighty tempest shall 
be stirred round about him." 
Dies irae, dies ilia 
Solvet sec'lum in fa-villa: 
Teste David, cum Sibylla. 

The trumpet of God shall sound, and 
the voice of the archangel, which things, 
when they are come to pass, it will be no 
wonder if men's hearts should fail them 
for fear, and their wits be lost with guilt, 
and their fond hopes destroyed by prodigy 
and amazement ; but it will be an extreme 
wonder if the consideration and certain 
expectation of these things shall not 
awake our sleeping spirits, and raise us 
from the death of sin and the baseness of 
vice and dishonourable actions, to live 
soberly and temperately, chastely and 
justly, humbly and obediently, that is, 
like persons that believe all this ; and such 
who are not madmen or fools will order 
their actions according to these notices. 
For if they do not believe these things, 
where is their faith ? If they do believe 
them and sin on, and do as if there were 
no such thing to come to pass, where is 
their prudence, and what is their hopes, 
and where their charity ? how do they 
differ from beasts, save that they are 
more foolish ? for beasts go on and con- 
sider not, because they cannot ; but w r e 
can consider and will not : we know that 
strange terrors shall affright us all, and 

strange deaths and torments shall seize 
on the wicked, and that we cannot escape, 
and the rocks themselves will not be able 
to hide us from the fears of those pro- 
digies which shall come before the day of 
judgment : and that themountains, though, 
when they are broken in pieces, we call 
on them to fall on us, shall not be able to 
secure us one minute from the present 
vengeance ; and yet we proceed with con- 
fidence or carelessness, and consider not 
that there is no greater folly in the world 
than for a man to neglect his greatest 
interest, and to die for trifles and little 
regards, and to become miserable for such 
interests, which are not excusable in a 
child. He that is youngest hath not long 
to live : he that is thirty, forty, or fifty 
years old, hath spent most of his life and 
his dream is almost done, and in a very 
few months he must be cast into his 
eternal portion ; that is, he must be in an 
unalterable condition : his final sentence 
shall pass, according as he shall then be 
found ; and that will be an intolerable 
condition when he shall have reason to 
cry out in the bitterness of his soul, 
" Eternal woe is to me who refused to 
consider, when I might have been saved 
and secured from this intolerable cala- 
mity." Jeremy Taylor. 


He that resolves not to live well till the 
time comes that he must die, is ridiculous 
in his great design, as he is impertinent 
in his intermedial purposes, and vain in 
his hope. Since all the purposes of a 
holy lite which a dying man can make 
cannot be reduced to act, by what law, 
or reason, or covenant, or revelation, are 
we taught to distinguish the resolution of 
a dying man from the purposes of a living 
and vigorous person ? Suppose a man in 
his youth and health, moved by consider- 
ation of the irregularity and deformity of 
sin, the danger of its productions, the 
wrath and displeasure of Almighty God, 
should resolve to leave the puddles of 
impurity, and walk in the paths of right- 
eousness ; can this resolution alone put 
him into the state of grace ? Is he ad- 
mitted to pardon and the favour of God 
before he hath in some measure per- 
formed actually what he so reasonably 
hath resolved? by no means. For reso- 



lution and purpose is, in its own nature 
and constitution, an imperfect act, and 
therefore can signify nothing without its 
performance and consummation. It is as 
a faculty is to the act, as spring is to the 
harvest, as seed-time is to the autumn, as 
eggs are to birds, or as a relative to its 
correspondent ; nothing without it. And 
can it be imagined that a resolution in 
our health and life shall be effectual with- 
out performance ? And shall a resolution, 
barely such, do any good on our death- 
bed ? Can such purposes prevail against 
a long impiety, rather than against a 
young and a newly -begun state of sin ? 
Will God at an easier rate pardon the 
sins of fifty or sixty years, than the sins 
of our youth only, or the iniquity of five 
years, or ten ? If a holy life be not ne- 
cessary to be lived, why shall it be ne- 
cessary to resolve to live it ? But if a 
holy life be necessary, then it cannot be 
sufficient merely to resolve it, unless this 
resolution go forth in an actual and real 
service. Vain therefore is the hope of 
those persons, who either go on in their 
sins before their last sickness, never think- 
ing to return into the ways of God, from 
whence they have wandered all their life, 
never renewing their resolutions and vows 
of holy living ; or if they have, yet their 
purposes are for ever blasted with the 
next violent temptation. More prudent 
was the prayer of David : " Oh spare me 
a little, that I may recover my strength, 
before I go hence and be no more seen." 
"Whenever our holy purposes are renewed, 
unless God gives us time to act them, to 
mortify and subdue our lusts, to conquer 
and subdue the whole kingdom of sin, to 
rise from our grave and be clothed with 
nerves and flesh and a new skin, to over- 
come our deadly sicknesses, and by little 
and little to return to health and strength ; 
unless we have grace and time to do all 
this, our sins will lie down with us in our 
graves. For when a man hath contracted 
a long habit of sin, and it hath been 
growing on him ten or twenty, forty or 
fifty years, whose acts he hath daily or 
hourly repeated, and they are grown to a 
second nature to him, and have so pre- 
vailed on the ruins of his spirit, that the 
man is taken captive by the devil at his 
will, he is fast bound, as a slave tugging 
at the oar ; that he is grown in love with 
his fetters and longs to be doing the work 
of sin ; is it likely that after all this pro- 
gress and growth in sin, in the ways of 
which he runs fast without any impedi- 

ment ; is it, I say, likely that a few days 
or weeks of sickness can recover him ? 
can a man be supposed so prompt to piety 
and holy living, a man I mean that hath 
lived wickedly a long time together ; can 
he be of so ready and active a virtue on 
the sudden, as to recover, in a month or a 
week, what he hath been undoing in 
twenty or thirty years ? Is it so easy to 
build, that a weak and infirm person, 
bound hand and foot, shall be able to 
build more in three days than was a-build- 
ing above forty years ? Christ did it in a 
figurative sense : but in this, it is not in 
the power of any man so suddenly to be 
recovered from so long a sickness. Ne- 
cessary therefore it is that all these in- 
struments of our conversion, confession of 
sins, praying for their pardon, and reso- 
lution to lead a new life, should begin 
" before our feet stumble on the dark 
mountains," lest we leave the work only 
resolved on to be begun, which it is ne- 
cessary we should in many degrees finish, 
if ever we mean to escape the eternal 
darkness. For that we should actually 
abolish the whole body of sin and death — 
that we should crucify the old man with 
his lusts — that we should lay aside every 
weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset 
us — that we should cast away the works 
of darkness— that we should awake from 
sleep, and arisefrom death — that we should 
redeem the time — that we should cleanse 
our hands and purify our hearts — that we 
should have escaped the corruption (all the 
corruption) that is in the whole world 
through lust — that nothing of the whole 
leaven should remain in us, but that we be 
wholly a new lump, thoroughly trans- 
formed and changed in the image of our 
mind ; these are the perpetual precepts of 
the Spirit and the certain duty of man ; 
and that to have all these in purpose only, 
is merely to no purpose, without the 
actual eradication of every vicious habit, 
and the certain abolition of every criminal 
adherence, is clearly and dogmatically 
decreed everywhere in the Scripture. 
" For (they are the words of Saint Paul) 
they that are Christ's have crucified the 
flesh with the affections and lusts ; " the 
work is actually done, and sin is dead or 
wounded mortally, before they can in any 
sense belong to Christ, to be a portion of 
his inheritance : and " He that is in Christ 
is a new creature." For " in Christ Jesus 
nothing can avail but a new creature;" 
nothing but a "keeping the command- 
ments of God." Not all tears, though we 



should weep like David and his men at 
Ziklag, " till they could weep no more," 
or the women of Ramah, or like "the 
weeping in the valley of Hinnom," could 
suffice, if we retain the affection to any 
one sin, or have any unrepented of or un- 
mortified. It is true that " a contrite and 
a broken heart God will not despise:" 
no, he will not. For if it be a hearty 
and permanent sorrow, it is an excellent 
beginning of repentance ; and God will to 
a timely sorrow give the grace of repent- 
ance : he will not give pardon to sorrow 
alone ; but that which ought to be the 
proper effect of sorrow, that God shall 
give. He shall then open the gates of 
mercy, and admit you to a possibility of 
restitution : so that you may be within 
the covenant of repentance, which if you 
actually perform, you may expect God's 
promise. And in this sense confession 
will obtain our pardon, and humiliation 
will be accepted, and our holy purposes 
and pious resolutions shall be accounted 
for; that is, these being the first steps 
and addresses to that part of repentance 
which consists in the abolition of sins, 
shall be accepted so far as to procure so 
much of the pardon, to do so much of the 
work of restitution, that God will admit 
the returning man to a farther degree of 
emendation, to a nearer possibility of 
working out his salvation. But then, if 
this sorrow and confession, and these 
strong purposes begin then when our life 
is declined towards the west, and is now 
ready to set in darkness and a dismal 
night ; because of themselves they could 
but procure an admission to repentance, 
not at all to pardon and plenary absolu- 
tion, by showing that on our death-bed 
these are too late and ineffectual, they 
call on us to begin betimes, when these 
imperfect acts may be consummate and 
perfect in the actual performing those 
parts of holy life to which they were or- 
dained in the nature of the thing and the 
purposes of God. 

Since repentance is a duty of so great 
and giant-like bulk, let no man crowd it 
up into so narrow room, as that it be 
strangled in its birth for want of time 
and air to breathe in ; let it not be put 
off to that time when a man hath scarce 
time enough to reckon all those particular 
duties which make up the integrity of its 
constitution. Will any man hunt the wild 
boar in his garden, or bait a bull in his 
closet ? Will a woman wrap her child in 
a handkerchief, or a father send his son 

to school when he is fifty years old? 
These are indecencies of Providence, and 
the instrument contradicts the end : and 
this is our case. There is no room for 
the repentance, no time to act all its es- 
sential parts ; and a child who hath a 
great way to go before he be wise, may 
defer his studies and hope to become 
learned in his old age and on his death- 
bed, as well as a vicious person may think 
to recover from all his ignorances and 
prejudicate opinions, from all his false 
principles and evil customs, from his 
wicked inclinations and ungodly habits, 
from his fondnesses of vice and detes- 
tations of virtue, from his promptness to 
sin and unwillingness to grace, from his 
spiritual deadness and strong sensuality, 
on his death-bed (I say), when he hath 
no natural strength, and as little spiritual ; 
when he is criminal and impotent, har- 
dened in his vice and soft in his fears, 
full of passion and empty of wisdom ; 
when he is sick and amazed, and timorous 
and confounded, and impatient, and ex- 
tremely miserable. 

And now, when any of you is tempted 
to commit a sin, remember that sin will 
ruin you, unless you repent of it. But 
this, you say, is no news, and so far from 
affrighting you from sin, that God knows 
it makes men sin the rather. For there- 
fore they venture to act the present 
temptation, because they know if they re- 
pent God will forgive them ; and there- 
fore they resolve on both, to sin now and 
repent hereafter. 

Against this folly I shall not oppose 
the consideration of their danger, and that 
they neither know how long they shall 
live, nor whether they shall die or no in 
this very act of sin ; though this consi- 
deration is very material, and if they 
should die in it, or before it is washed off, 
they perish ; but I consider these things : 
1. That he that resolves to sin on a re- 
solution to repent, by every act of sin 
makes himself more incapable of repent- 
ing, by growing more in love with sin, by 
remembering its pleasures, by serving it 
once more, and losing one degree more of 
the liberty of our spirit. And if you 
resolve to sin now because it is pleasant, 
how do you know that your appetite will 
alter ? Will it not appear pleasant to you 
next week, and the next week after that, 
and so for ever? And still you sin, and 
still you will repent; that is, you will re- 
pent when the sin can please you no 
longer ; for so long as it can please you, 



so long you are tempted not to repent, as 
well as now to act the sin ! and the longer 
you he in it, the more you will love it : 
so that it is in effect to say, I love my sin 
now, but I will hereafter hate it ; only I 
will act it awhile longer, and grow more 
in love with it, and then I will repent ; 
that is, then I will be sure to hate it, 
when I shall most love it. 2. To repent 
signifies to be sorrowful, to be ashamed, 
and to wish it had never been done. And 
then see the folly of this temptation ; I 
would not sin, but that I hope to repent 
of it : that is, I would not do this thing, 
but that I hope to be sorrowful for doing 
it, and I hope to come to sbame for it, 
heartily to be ashamed of my doings, and 
I hope to be in that condition that I would 
give all the world I had never done it; that 
is, I hope to feel and apprehend an evil infi- 
nitely greater than the pleasures of my sin. 
And are these arguments fit to move a man 
to sin ? What can affright a man from it, if 
these invite him to it ? It is as if a man 
should invite one to be a partner of his 
treason, by telling him, if you will join 
with me, you shall have all these effects 
by it: you shall be hanged, drawn and 
quartered, and your blood shall be cor- 
rupted, and your estate forfeited, and you 
shall have many other reasons to wish 
you had never done it. He that should use 
this rhetoric in earnest, might well be 
accounted a madman : this is to scare a 
man, not to allure him: and so is the 
other when we understand it truly. 3. 
For I consider, he that repents wishes 
he had never done that sin. Now I ask, 
does he wish so on reason or without 
reason ? Surely, if he may, when he hath 
satisfied his lust, ask God pardon, and be 
admitted on as easy terms for the time to 
come as if he had not done the sin, he 
hath no reason to be sorrowful, or wish 
he had not done it. For though he hath 
done it, and pleased himself by " enjoying 
the pleasure of sin for a season," yet all 
is well again ; and let him only be careful 
now and there is no hurt done, his pardon 
is certain. How can any man that un- 
derstands the reason of his actions and 
passions, wish that he had never done 
that sin in which then he had pleasure, 
and now he feels no worse inconvenience ? 
But he that truly repents, wishes and 
would give all the world he had never 
done it : surely then his present condition 
in respect of his past sin hath some very 
great evil in it; why else should he be 
so much troubled ? True, and this it is. 

He is fallen out of the favour of God, is 
tied to hard duty for the time to come, 
to cry vehemently unto God, to call night 
and day for pardon, to be in great fear 
and tremblings of heart lest God should 
never forgive him, lest God will never 
take off his sentence of eternal pains ; and 
in this fear, and in some degrees of it, he 
will remain all the days of his life : and if 
he hopes to be quit of that, yet he knows 
not how many degrees of God's anger 
still hang over his head ; how many sad 
miseries shall afflict, and burn, and purify 
him in this world, with a sharpness so 
poignant as to divide the marrow from the 
bones ; and for these reasons, as a consi- 
dering man that knows what it is to 
repent, wishes with his soul he had never 
sinned, and therefore grieves in propor- 
tion to his former crimes, and present 
misery, and future danger. 

And now suppose that you can repent 
when you will, that is, that you can grieve 
when you will ; though no man can do it, 
no man can grieve when he please, though 
he could shed tears when he list, he can- 
not grieve without a real or apprehended 
infelicity ; but, suppose it ; and that he 
can fear when he please, and that he can 
love when he please, or what he please ; 
that is, suppose a man be able to say to 
his palate, though I love sweetmeats, yet 
to-morrow will I hate and loathe them, 
and believe them bitter and distasteful 
things ; suppose, I say, all these impos- 
sibilities ; yet since repentance does sup- 
pose a man to be in a state of such real 
misery, that he hath reason to curse the 
day in which he sinned, is this a fit argu- 
ment to invite a man that is in his wits to 
sin ? to sin in hope of repentance ? as if 
danger of falling into hell, and fear of the 
divine anger, and many degrees of the 
divine judgments, and a lasting sorrow, 
and a perpetual labour, and a never-cea- 
sing trembling, and a troubled conscience, 
and a sorrowful spirit, were fit things to 
be desired or hoped for. 

The sum is this : he that commits sins 
shall perish eternally, if he never does 
repent. And if he does repent, and yet 
untimely, he is not the better ; and if he 
does not repent with an entire, a perfect, 
and complete repentance, he is not the 
better. But if he does, yet repentance is 
a duty full of fears, and sorrow, and 
labour; a vexation to the spirit; an 
afflictive, penal, or punitive duty ; a duty 
which suffers for sin and labours for grace, 
which abides and suffers little images of 



hell in the way to heaven : and though it 
be the only way to felicity, yet it is beset 
with thorns and daggers of sufferance, and 
with rocks and mountains of duty. Let 
no man therefore dare to sin on the hopes 
of repentance ; for he is a fool and a hy- 
pocrite that now chooses and approves 
what he knows hereafter he must con- 
demn. Jeremy Taylor. 


She always lived a life of much inno- 
cence, free from the violences of great 
sins : her person, her breeding, her mo- 
desty, her honour, her religion, her early 
marriage, the guide of her soul, and the 
guide of her youth, were as so many 
fountains of restraining grace to her, to 
keep her from the dishonours of a crime. 
" It is good to bear the yoke of the Lord 
from our youth :" and though she did so, 
being guarded by a mighty Providence 
and a great favour and grace of God, from 
staining her fair soul with the spots of 
hell, yet she had strange fears and early 
cares on her ; but these were not only for 
herself, but in order to others, to her 
nearest relatives : for she was so great a 
lover of this honourable family, of which 
now she was a mother, that she desired 
to become a channel of great blessings to 
it unto future ages, and was extremely 
jealous lest anything should be done, or 
lest anything had been done, though an 
age or two since, which should entail a 
curse on the innocent posterity ; and be- 
cause she knew the sins of parents de- 
scend on children, she endeavoured, by 
justice and religion, by charity and ho- 
nour, to secure that her channel should 
convey nothing but health, and a fair ex- 
ample, and a blessing. 

And though her accounts of God were 
made up of nothing but small parcels, 
little passions, and gigry words, and tri- 
fling discontents, whicn are the allays of 
the piety of the most holy persons, yet 
she was early at her repentance; and 
toward the latter end of her days, grew 
so fast in religion, as if she had had a 
revelation of her approaching end, and 
therefore that she must go a great way in 
a little time : her discourses more full of 
religion, her prayers more frequent, her 
charity increasing, her forgiveness more 
forward, her friendships more communi- 

cative, her passion more under discipline ; 
and so she trimmed her lamp, not think- 
ing her night was so near, but that it 
might shine also in the day-time, in the 
temple, and before the altar of incense. 

But in this course of hers there were 
some circumstances and some appendages 
of substance, which were highly remark- 

In all her religion, and in all her ac- 
tions of relation towards God, she had a 
strange evenness and untroubled passage, 
sliding toward her ocean of God and of 
infinity with a certain and silent motion. 
So have I seen a river, deep and smooth, 
passing with a still foot and a sober face, 
and paying to the fiscus, the great " ex- 
chequer" of the sea, the prince of all the 
watery bodies, a tribute large and full ; 
and hard by it, a little brook skipping 
and making a noise on its unequal and 
neighbour bottom ; and after all its 
talking and bragged motion, it paid to 
its common audit no more than the reve- 
nues of a little cloud or a contemptible 
vessel : so have I sometimes compared 
the issues of her religion to the solem- 
nities and famed outsides of another's 
piety. It dwelt on her spirit and was 
incorporated with the periodical work of 
every day : she did not believe that reli- 
gion was intended to minister to fame 
and reputation, but to pardon of sins, to 
the pleasure of God, and the salvation of 
souls. For religion is like the breath of 
heaven : if it goes abroad into the open air, 
it scatters and dissolves like camphire ; 
but if it enters into a secret hollowness, 
into a close conveyance, it is strong and 
mighty, and comes forth with vigour and 
great effect at the other end, at the other 
side of this life, in the days of death and 

The other appendage of her religion, 
which also was a great ornament to all 
the parts of her life, was a rare modesty 
and humility of spirit, a confident de- 
spising and undervaluing of herself. For 
though she had the greatest judgment and 
the greatest experience of things and 
persons that I ever yet knew in a person 
of her youth, and sex, and circumstances, 
yet, as if sbe knew nothing of it, she had 
the meanest opinion of herself; and like 
a fair taper, when she shined to all the 
room, yet round about her own station 
she had cast a shadow and a cloud, and 
she shined to everybody but herself. 
But the perfectness of her prudence and 
excellent parts could not be hid ; and all 



her humility and arts of concealment 
made the virtues more amiable and illus- 
trious. For as pride sullies the beauty 
of the fairest virtues, and makes our un- 
derstanding but like the craft and learning 
of a devil, so humility is the greatest 
eminency and art of publication in the 
whole world : and she in all her arts of 
secrecy and hiding her worthy things, 
was but " like one that hideth the wind, 
and covers the ointment of her right 

She lived as we all should live, and she 
died as I fain would die : 
Cum mihi supremos Lachesis perneverit annos, 
Non aliter cineres mando jacere meos. 

I pray God I may feel these mercies on 
my deathbed that she felt, and that I may 
feel the same effect of my repentance, 
which she feels of the many degrees of 
her innocence. Such was her death that 
she did not die too soon; and her life 
was so useful and excellent, that she 
could not have lived too long : Nemo pa- 
rum diu vixit, qui virtutis perfects per- 
fect o functus est munere. And as now in 
the grave it shall not be inquired con- 
cerning her how long she lived, but how 
well, so to us who live after her, to suffer 
a longer calamity, it may be some ease 
to our sorrows, and some guide to our 
lives, and some security to our conditions, 
to consider that God hath brought the 
piety of a young lady to the early rewards 
of a never-ceasing and never-dying eter- 
nity of glory. And we also, if we live as 
she did, shall partake of the same glories ; 
not only having the honour of a good 
name and a dear and honoured memory, 
but the glories of these glories, the end 
of all excellent labours, and all prudent 
counsels, and all holy religion, even the 
salvation of our souls, in that day when 
all the saints, and among them this ex- 
cellent woman, shall be shown to all the 
world to have done more, and more ex- 
cellent things than we know of or can 
describe. Mors illos consecrat, quorum 
exitum, et qui timent, laudant : " death 
consecrates and makes sacred that person 
whose excellency was such, that they that 
are not displeased at the death, cannot 
dispraise the life ; but they that mourn 
sadly, think they can never commend 
sufficiently." Jeremy Taylor. 


You must be a man of God, not after 
the common manner of men, but " after 
God's own heart ;" and men will strive to 
be like you if you be like to God ; but 
when you only stand at the door of vir- 
tue, for nothing but to keep sin out, you 
will draw into the folds of Christ none 
but such as fear drives in. Ad majorem 
Dei gloriam, " to do what will most glo- 
rify God," that is the line you must walk 
by ; for to do no more than all men needs 
must, is servility, not so much as the af- 
fection of sons ; much less can you be 
fathers to the people, when you go not so 
far as the sons of God ; for a dark lantern, 
though there be a weak brightness on one 
side, will scarce enlighten one, much less 
will it conduct a multitude, or allure many 
followers, by the brightness of its flame. 
And indeed the duty appears in this, that 
many things are lawful for the people 
which are scandalous in the clergy ; you 
are tied to more abstinences, to more seve- 
rities, to more renunciations and self-de- 
nials ; you may not with that freedom re- 
ceive secular contentments that others 
may; you must spend more time in 
prayers, your alms must be more bounti- 
ful ; your hands more open ; your hearts 
enlarged: others must relieve the poor, 
you must take care of them ; others must 
show themselves their brethren, but you 
must be their fathers ; they must pray fre- 
quently and fervently, but you must give 
your " selves up wholly to the word of 
God and prayer;" they must "watch and 
pray that they fall not into temptation," 
but you must watch for yourselves and 
others too ; the people must mourn when 
they sin, but you must mourn for your 
own infirmities and for the sins of others ; 
and, indeed, if the life of a clergyman does 
not exceed even the piety of the people, 
that life is, in some measure, scandalous ; 
and what shame was ever greater than is 
described in the parable of the traveller 
going from Jerusalem to Jericho, when, 
to the eternal dishonour of the Levite and 
the priest, it is told that they went aside 
and saw him with a wry neck and a bend- 
ed head, but let him alone, and left him 
to be cured by the good Samaritan ? The 
primitive church in her discipline used to 
thrust their delinquent clergy in laicam 
communionem, even then when their faults 
were but small, and of less reproach than 
I to deserve greater censures ; yet they less- 



ened them by thrusting them " into the 
lay communion," as most fit for such mi- 
nisters who refused to live at the height 
of sacerdotal piety. Remember your dig- 
nity, to which Christ hath called you : 
" Shall such a man as I flee?" said the 
brave Eleazar ; shall the stars be darkness, 
shall the ambassadors of Christ neglect to 
do their king honour ; shall the glory of 
Christ do dishonourable and inglorious ac- 
tions ? " Ye are the glory of Christ," 
saith St. Paul ; remember that, — I can say 
no greater thing ; unless possibly this may 
add some moments for your care and cau- 
tion, that potentes patenter cruciabuntur, 
"great men shall be greatly tormented," 
if they sin ; and to fall from a great height 
is an intolerable ruin. Severe were the 
words of our blessed Saviour, " Ye are the 
salt of the earth ; if the salt have lost his 
savour, it is thenceforth good for nothing, 
neither for land, nor yet for the dung- 
hill ;" a greater dishonour could not be 
expressed ; he that takes such a one up 
will shake his fingers. I end this with 
the saying of St. Austin, " Let your reli- 
gious prudence think, that in the world, 
especially at this time, nothing is more 
laborious, more difficult, or more danger- 
ous than the office of a bishop, or a priest, 
or a deacon ;" sed apud Beum nihil bea- 
tius, si eo modo militetur quo noster im- 
perator jubet ; " but nothing is more bless- 
ed, if we do our duty according to the 
commandment of our Lord." 

I have always discoursed of the inte- 
grity of fife, and what great necessity 
there is, and how deep obligations lie on 
you, not only to be innocent and void of 
offence, but also to be holy ; not only pure 
but shining ; not only to be blameless, but 
to be didactic in your lives; that as, by 
your sermons, you preach in season, so by j 
your lives you may preach out of season ; j 
that is, at all seasons, and to all men, that 
they, " seeing your good works, may glo- 
rify God" on your behalf and on their own. 
Jeremy Taylor. 


Do not trouble your people with con- 
troversies ; whatsoever does gender strife, 
the Apostle commands us to avoid ; and 
therefore much more the strife itself : a 
controversy is a stone in the mouth of the 
hearer, who should be fed with bread, and 

it is a temptation to the preacher, it is a 
state of temptation ; it engages one side 
in lying, and both in uncertainty and un- 
charitableness ; and after all it is not food 
for souls ; it is the food of contention, it 
is a spiritual law-suit, and it can never be 
ended ; every man is right, and every man 
is wrong in these things, and no man can 
tell who is right or who is wrong. For 
as long as a word can be spoken against a 
word, and a thing be opposite to a thing ; 
as long as places are hard, and men are 
ignorant, or " knowing but in part ;" as 
long as there is money and pride in the 
world, and for ever till men willingly con- 
fess themselves to be fools and deceived, 
so long will the saw of contention be 
drawn from side to side. " That which is 
not, cannot be numbered," saith the wise 
man ; no man can reckon on any truth 
that is got by contentious learning ; and 
whoever troubles his people with ques- 
tions, and teaches them to be trouble- 
some, note that man, he loves not peace, 
or he would fain be called Rabbi, Rabbi. 
Christian religion loves not tricks nor arti- 
fices of wonder ; but, like the natural and 
amiable simplicity of Jesus, by plain and 
easy propositions leads us in wise paths 
to a place where sin and strife shall never 
enter. What good can come from that 
which fools begin, and wise men can never 
end but by silence ? and that had been 
the best way at first, and would have sti- 
fled them in the cradle. What have your 
people to do, whether Christ's body be in 
the sacrament by consubstantiation or 
transubstantiation ; whether purgatory be 
in the centre of the earth or in the air, or 
anywhere or nowhere ; and who but a 
madman would trouble their heads with 
the entangled links of the fantastic chain 
of predestination ? Teach them to fear 
God and honour the king, to keep the 
commandments of God, and the king's 
commands, because of the oath of God ; 
learn them to be sober and temperate, to 
be just and to pay their debts, to speak 
well of their neighbours, and to think 
meanly of themselves ; teach them cha- 
rity, and learn them to be zealous of good 
works. " The kingdom of God consists 
in wisdom and righteousness, in peace and 
holiness, in meekness and gentleness, in 
chastity and purity, in abstinence from 
evil, and doing good to others ;" in these 
things place your labours, preach these 
things, and nothing else but such as these; 
things which promote the public peace 
and public good ; things that can give no 



offence to the wise and to the virtuous ; 
for these things are profitable to men and 
pleasing to God. 

Let not your sermons and discourses to 
your people be busy arguings about hard 
places of scripture ; if you strike a hard 
against a hard, you may chance to strike 
fire, or break a man's head, but it never 
makes a good building ; Philosophiam ad 
8yllabas vocare, that is to no purpose ; 
your sermons must be for edification, 
something to make the people better and 
wiser, " wiser unto salvation," not wiser 
to discourse ; for if a hard thing get into 
their heads, I knows not what work you 
will make of it, but they will make no- 
thing of it, or something that is very 
strange; dress your people unto the 
imagery of Christ, dress them for their 
funerals, help them to make their ac- 
counts up against the day of judgment. 
I have known some persons and some fa- 
milies that would religiously educate their 
children, and bring them up in the scrip- 
tures from their cradle ; and they would 
teach them to tell who was the first man, 
and who was the oldest, and who was the 
wisest, and who was the strongest ; but I 
never observed them to ask who was the 
best, and what things were required to 
make a man good ; the Apostles' creed 
was not the entertainment of their pretty 
talkings, nor the life of Christ, the story 
of his bitter passion, and his incomparable 
sermon on the mount, went not into their 
catechisms. What good can your flocks 
receive if you discourse well and wisely, 
whether Jephthah sacrificed his daughter, 
or put her into the retirements of a soli- 
tary life ; or how David's numbering the 
people did differ from Joshua's ; or whe- 
ther God took away the life of Moses by 
an apoplexy, or by the kisses of his mouth? 
If scholars be idly busy in these things in 
the schools, custom and some other little 
accidents may help to excuse them ; but 
the time that is spent in your churches, 
and conversation with your people, must 
not be so thrown away ; \6yos etrru) aejx- 
vbs, that is your rule ; " let your speech 
be grave," and wise, and useful, and holy, 
and intelligible ; something to reform 
their manners, to correct their evil na- 
tures, to amend their foolish customs, " to 
build them up in a most holy faith." That 
is the second rule and measure of your 
preachings that the apostle gives you. 

Thirdly, your speech must be vyij]s, 
"salutary" and wholesome; and indeed 
this is of greatest concern, next to the 

first, next to the truth and purity of that 
doctrine ; for unless the doctrine be made 
fit for the necessities of your people, and 
not only be good in itself, but good for 
them, you lose the end of your labours, 
and they the end of your preachings; 
" Your preaching is vain, and their faith 
is also vain." The particulars of this are 
not many, but very useful. 

It is never out of season to preach good 
works, but when you do, be careful that 
you never indirectly disgrace them by tell- 
ing how your adversaries spoil them. I 
do not speak this in vain, for too many of 
us account good works to be popery, and 
so not only dishonour our religion, and 
open wide the mouths of adversaries, but 
disparage Christianity itself, while we hear 
it preached in every pulpit, that they who 
preach good works think they merit hea- 
ven by it ; and so for fear of merit, men 
let the work alone ; to secure a true opi- 
nion, they neglect a good practice ; and 
out of hatred of popery, we lay aside 
Christianity itself. Teach them how to 
do good works, and yet to walk humbly 
with God ; for better it is to do well even 
on a weak account, than to do nothing on 
the stock of a better proposition ; and let 
it never be used any more as a word of 
reproach unto us all, that the faith of a 
protestant, and the works of a papist, and 
the words of a fanatic, make up a good 
christian. Believe well and speak well, 
and do well ; but in doing good works a 
man cannot deceive any one but himself, 
by the appendage of a foolish opinion ; 
but in our believing only, and in talking, 
a man may deceive himself, and all the 
world; and God only can be safe from 
the cozenage. Like to this is the case of 
external forms of worship, which too many 
refuse, because they pretend that many 
who use them rest in them, and pass no 
farther ; for, besides, that no sect of men 
teaches their people so to do, you cannot 
without uncharitableness suppose it true 
of very many. But if others do ill, do 
not you do so too ; and leave not out the 
external forms for fear of formality, but 
join the inward power of godliness ; and 
then they are reproved best, and instruct- 
ed wisely, and you are secured. But re- 
member, that profaneness is commonly 
something that is external, and he is a 
profane person who neglects the exterior 
part of religion ; and this is so rile a 
crime, that hypocrisy, while it is undis- 
covered, is not so much mischievous as 
open profaneness, or a neglect and con- 



tempt of external religion. Do not de- 
spise external religion, because it may be 
sincere ; and do not rely on it wbolly, be- 
cause it may be counterfeit ; but do you 
preach both, and practise both ; both what 
may glorify God in public, and what may 
please him in private. 

In deciding the questions and causes of 
conscience of your flocks, never strive to 
speak what is pleasing, but what is profit- 
able, ov \6yovs, dXXd 7rpayf.ia.Twv (pQey- 
yeadai ovaias, as was said of Isidore the I 
philosopher, " You must not give your | 
people words, but things and substantial j 
food." Let not the people be prejudiced I 
in the matter of their souls, on any terms | 
whatsoever, and be not ashamed to speak I 
boldly in the cause of God ; for he that is | 
angry when he is reproved, is not to be I 
considered, excepting only to be reproved 
again ; if he will never mend, not you, but ; 
he will have the worst of it ; but if he 
ever mends, he will thank you for your 
love, and for your wisdom, and for your 
care ; and no man is finally disgraced for 
speaking of a truth ; only here, pray for 
the grace of prudence, that you may speak 
opportunely and wisely, lest you profit not, 
but destroy an incapable subject. 

Lastly, the apostle requires of even- mi- 
nister of the gospel that his speech and 
doctrine should be d/carayvworos, " un- 
reprovable ;" not such against which no 
man can cavil; for the Pharisees found 
fault with the wise discourses of the eter- 
nal son of God ; and heretics and schis- 
matics prated against the holy apostles 
and their excellent sermons ; but a-tcara- 
yvwGTOs is " such as deserves no blame," 
and needs no pardon, and flatters not for 
praise, and begs no excuses, and makes no 
apologies ; a discourse that will be justi- 
fied by all the sons of wisdom ; now, that 
yours may be so, the preceding rides are 
the best means that are imaginable. For 
so long as you speak the pure truths of 
God, the plain meaning of the spirit, the 
necessary things of faith, the useful tilings 
of charity, and the excellences of holi- 
ness, who can reprove your doctrine ? 
But there is something more in this word 
which the apostle means, else it had been 
a useless repetition ; and a man may speak 
the truths of God, and yet may be blame- 
worthy by an importune, unseasonable, 
and imprudent way of delivering them, or 
for want of such conduct which will place 
him and his doctrine in reputation and ad- 
vantages. To this purpose these advices 
may be usefuL 

Be more careful to establish a truth 
than to reprove an error. For besides 
that a truth will, when it is established, 
of itself reprove the error sufficiently, 
men will be less apt to reprove the truth, 
when they are not engaged to defend their 
own propositions against you. Men stand 
on their guard when you proclaim war 
against their doctrine. Teach your doc- 
trine purely and wisely, and without any 
angry reflections ; for you shall very hardly 
persuade him, whom you go about pnb- 
licly to confute. 

If any man have a revelation or a dis- 
covery, of which thou knowest nothing 
but by his preaching, be not too quick to 
condemn it ; not only lest thou discourage 
his labour and stricter inquiries in the 
search of truth, but lest thou also be a 
fool on record ; for so is every man that 
hastily judges what he slowly understands. 
Is it not a monument of lasting reproach, 
that one of the popes of Rome condemned 
the bishop of Sulzbach for saying that 
there were antipodes ? And is not pope 
Nicholas deserted by his own party for 
correcting the sermons of Berengarius, 
and making him recant into a worse error? 
and posterity will certainly make them- 
selves very merry with the wise sentences 
made lately at Rome against Galileo and 
the Jansenists. To condemn one truth is 
more shameful than to broach two errors; 
for he that in an honest and diligent in- 
quiry misses something of the mark, will 
have the apologies of human infirmity, 
and the praise of doing his best ; but he 
that condemns a truth when it is told him, 
is an envious fool, and is a murderer of 
his brother's fame and his brother's reason. 
Jeremy Taylor. 


Man and wife are equally concerned to 
avoid all offences of each other in the be- 
ginning of their conversation ; every lit- 
tle thing can blast an infant blossom ; and 
the breath of the south can shake the lit- 
tle rings of the vine when first they begin 
to curl like the locks of a new weaned 
boy ; but when by age and consolidation 
they stiffen into the hardness of a stem, 
and have by the warm embraces of the sun 
and the kisses of heaven, brought forth 
then; clusters, they can endure the storms 
of the north and the loud noises of a tern- 



pest, and yet never be broken ; so are the 
early unions of an unfixed marriage; watch- 
ful and observant, jealous and busy, in- 
quisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm 
at every unkind word. For infirmities do 
not manifest themselves in the first scenes, 
but in the succession of a long society ; 
and it is not chance or weakness when it 
appears at first, but it is want of love or 
prudence, or it will be so expounded, and 
that which appears ill at first, usually af- 
frights the inexperienced man or woman, 
who makes unequal conjectures, and fan- 
cies mighty sorrows by the proportions of 
the new and early unkindness. It is a 
very great passion, or a huge folly, or a 
certain want of love, that cannot preserve 
the colours and beauties of kindness, so 
long as public honesty requires a man to 
wear their sorrows for the death of a friend. 
Plutarch compares a new marriage to a 
vessel before the hoops are on ; " every 
thing dissolves their tender compagina- 
tions ;" " but when the joints are stiffened 
and are tied by a firm compliance and pro- 
portioned bending, scarcely can it be dis- 
solved without fire or the violence of iron." 
After the hearts of the man and the wife 
are endeared and hardened by a mutual 
confidence, and experience longer than 
artifice and pretence can last, there are 
a great many remembrances, and some 
things present, that dash all little unkind- 
nesses in pieces. The little boy in the 
Greek epigram, that was creeping down a 
precipice, was invited to his safety by the 
sight of his mother's pap, when nothing 
else could entice him to return ; and the 
bond of common children, and the sight 
of her that nurses what is most dear to 
him, and the endearments of each other 
in the course of a long society, and the 
same relation, is an excellent security to 
redintegrate and to call that love back, 
which folly and trifling accidents would 

When it is come thus far it is hard un- 
twisting the knot ; but be careful in its 
first coalition, that there be no rudeness 
done, for if there be, it will for ever after 
be apt to start and to be diseased. 

Let man and wife be careful to stifle 
little things, that, as fast as they spring, 
they be cut down and trod on ; for if 
they be suffered to grow by numbers, they 
make the spirit peevish, and the society 
troublesome, and the affections loose and 
easy by an habitual aversation. Some 
men are more vexed with a fly than with 
a wound ; and when the gnats disturb our 

sleep, and the reason is disquieted, but 
not perfectly awakened, it is often seen 
that he is fuller of trouble, than if, in the 
daylight of his reason, he were to contest 
with a potent enemy. In the frequent 
little accidents of a family a man's reason 
cannot always be awake ; and when his 
discourses are imperfect, and a trifling 
trouble makes him yet more restless, he 
is soon betrayed to the violence of passion. 
It is certain that the man or woman are 
in a state of weakness and folly then, when 
they can be troubled with a trifling acci- 
dent ; and therefore it is not good to 
tempt their affections when they are in 
that state of danger. In this case the 
caution is, to subtract fuel from the sud- 
den flame ; for stubble, though it be 
quickly kindled, yet it is as soon extin- 
guished, if it be not blown by a pertina- 
cious breath, or fed with new materials. 
Add no new provocations to the accident, 
and do not inflame this, and peace will 
soon return, and the discontent will pass 
aw T ay soon, as the sparks from the colli- 
sion of a flint ; ever remembering that 
discontents, proceeding from daily little 
things, do breed a secret undiscernible 
disease, which is more dangerous than a 
fever proceeding from a discerned noto- 
rious surfeit. Jeremy Taylor. 


Nothing is easier than simplicity and in- 
genuity ; it is open and ready without 
trouble and artificial cares, fit for commu- 
nities, and the proper virtue of men, the 
necessary appendage of useful speech, 
without which, language were given to 
men as nails and teeth to lions, for no- 
thing but to do mischief. It is a rare in- 
strument of institution, and a certain token 
of courage ; the companion of goodness 
and a noble mind, the preserver of friend- 
ship, the band of society, the security of 
merchants, and the blessing of trade; it 
prevents infinite of quarrels, and appeals 
to judges, and suffers none of the evils of 
jealousy. Men, by simplicity, converse 
as do the angels; they do their own work, 
and secure their proper interest, and serve 
the public, and do glory to God. But 
hypocrites and liars, and dissemblers, 
spread darkness over the face of affairs, 
and make men, like the blind, to walk 
softly and timorously; and crafty men, 
like the close air, suck that which is open, 



and devour its portion, and destroy its 
liberty ; and it is the guise of devils, and 
the dishonour of the soul, and the canker 
of society, and the enemy of justice, and 
truth, and peace, of wealth and honour, 
of courage and merchandize. He is a 
good man with whom a blind man may 
safely converse, to whom, in respect of 
his fair treatings, the darkness and light 
are both alike ; but he that bears light on 
the face, with a dark heart, is like him 
that transforms himself into an angel of 
light, when he means to do most mischief. 
Remember this only, that false colours 
laid on the face besmear the skin and 
dirty it, but they neither make a beauty 
nor mend it. " For without shall be dogs 
and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and 
murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever 
loveth and maketh a he." 

Jeremy Taylor. 


God hath given his laws to rule us, his 
word to instruct us, his spirit to guide us, 
his angels to protect us, his ministers to 
exhort us ; he revealed all our duty, and 
he hath concealed whatsoever can hinder 
us ; he hath affrighted our follies with 
fear of death, and engaged our watchful- 
ness by its secret coming ; he hath exer- 
cised our faith by keeping private the state 
of souls departed, and yet hath confirmed 
our faith by a promise of a resurrection, 
and entertained our hope by some gene- 
ral significations of the state of interval. 
His mercies make contemptible means in- 
strumental to great purposes, and a small 
herb the remedy of the greatest diseases. 
He impedes the devil's rage, and infa- 
tuates his counsels ; he diverts his malice, 
and defeats his purposes ; he binds him 
in the chain of darkness, and gives him no 
power over the children of light ; he suf- 
fers him to walk in solitary places, and 
yet fetters him that he cannot disturb the 
sleep of a child ; he hath given him mighty 
power, and yet a young maiden that re- 
sists him shall make him flee away ; he 
hath given him a vast knowledge, and yet 
an ignorant man can confute him with the 
twelve articles of his creed ; he gave him 
power over the winds, and made him prince 
of the air, and yet the breath of a holy 
prayer can drive him as far as the utmost 

sea ; he hath made great variety of con- 
ditions, and yet hath made all necessary, 
and all mutual helpers ; and by some in- 
struments, and in some respects, they are 
all equal in order to felicity, to content, 
and final and intermedial satisfactions. 
He gave us part of our reward in hand, 
that he might enable us to work for more; 
he taught the world arts for use, arts for 
entertainment of all our faculties and all 
our dispositions ; he gives eternal gifts for 
temporal services, and gives us whatsoever 
we w T ant for asking, and commands us to 
ask, and threatens us if we will not ask, 
and punishes us for refusing to be happy. 
This is that glorious attribute that hath 
made order and health, harmony and hope, 
restitutions and variety, the joys of direct 
possession, and the joys, the artificial joys, 
of contrariety and comparison. He com- 
forts the poor, and he brings down the 
rich, that they maybe safe in their humi- 
lity and sorrow, from the transportations 
of an unhappy and uninstructed prospe- 
rity. He gives necessaries to all, and 
scatters the extraordinary provisions so, 
that every nation may traffic in charity, 
and commute for pleasures. He was the 
Lord of Hosts, and he is still what he was; 
but he loves to be called the God of Peace, 
because he was terrible in that, but he is 
delighted in this. His mercy is his glory, 
and his glory is the light of heaven. His 
mercy is the light of the creation, and it 
fills all the earth; and his mercy is a sea 
too, and it fills all the abysses of the deep; 
it hath given us promises for supply of 
whatsoever we need, and relieves us in all 
our fears, and in all the evils that we suf- 
fer. His mercies are more than we can 
tell, and they are more than we can feel ; 
for all the world in the abyss of the di- 
vine mercies is like a man diving into the 
bottom of the sea, over whose head the 
waters run insensibly and unperceived, 
and yet the weight is vast, and the sum of 
them is unmeasurable ; and the man is 
not pressed with the burden nor con- 
| founded with numbers ; and no observa- 
tion is able to recount, no sense sufficient 
to perceive, no memory large enough to 
retain, no understanding great enough to 
apprehend this infinity ; but we must ad- 
mire, and love, and worship, and magnify 
this mercy for ever and ever; that we 
may dwell in what we feel, and be com- 
prehended by that which is equal to God, 
and the parent of all felicity. 

Jeremy Taylor. 




author of the True Intellectual System of the Universe, was horn at Aller in Somer- 
setshire, in the year 1617. In 1630 he was admitted pensioner of Emmanuel College, 
Cambridge, of which he afterwards became a fellow. In 1644 he was appointed 
master of Clare Hall by the parliamentary visitors, and in 1654 was chosen master of 
Christ's College. In 1678 he published the Intellectual System. He died on the 
26th of June 1688, and was buried in the chapel of Christ's College. 

Cudworth, when he began his Intellectual System, intended one discourse only on 
liberty and necessity, but he afterward considered, that as the doctrine of necessity 
was maintained upon various grounds, he must, dividing his work into three parts, 
meet it in three ways, — first, by demonstrating the absolute impossibility of Atheism, 
and the actual existence of God, — secondly, by proving that this God was of essential 
goodness and justice, and that the differences of moral good and evil, honest and dis- 
honest, were not by mere will and law only, but by nature, — and, thirdly, by show- 
ing that men have such a liberty or power over their own actions as renders them 
accountable, and that consequently there is a justice distributive of rewards and pu- 
nishments. He published only the first part of his intended work, for he found that 
he had written as much in quantity on that subject as he had thought would suffice 
for the three. It is possible that his manuscripts, which are in the British Museum, 
contain some portions of the second and third books. Among other works in manu- 
script he left a discourse concerning eternal and immutable morality, the proposed 
subject of the second book of the Intellectual System ; it was published by bishop 
Chandler in 1731. 

He had prodigious learning, eminently shown in his views of the different systems 
of ancient philosophy, and was profuse in quotation which seems to make up at least 
one-third of his book. He stated fairly the reasoning that he purposed to confute, 
and was therefore blamed by some of that class of wrong-headed persons who think 
that Truth may be served by speaking lies of those who are against her. 


"We cannot say but that wicked persons 
may possibly sometimes have an uninter- 
rupted prosperity here in this life, and no 
visible marks of divine displeasure upon 
them; but, as the generously virtuous 
will not envy them upon this account, nor 
repine at their own condition, they know- 
ing that " there is neither anything truly 
evil to the good, nor good to the evil ;" 
so are they so far from being staggered 
herewith in their belief of a God and Pro- 
vidence, that they are rather the more 
confirmed in their persuasions of a future 
immortality and judgment after death, 
when all things shall be set straight and 
right, and reward and punishment impar- 
tially dispensed. That of Plutarch there- 

fore is most true here, " That there is a 
necessary connexion betwixt those two 
things, divine providence and the perma- 
nence or immortality of human souls, one 
and the same reason confirming them 
both ;" neither can one of these be taken 
alone without the other. But they who, 
because judgment is not presently exe- 
cuted upon the ungodly, blames the ma- 
nagement of things as faulty, and provi- 
dence as defective, are like such specta- 
tors of a dramatic poem, as when wicked 
and injurious persons are brought upon 
the stage, for a while swaggering and tri- 
umphing, impatiently cry out against the 
dramatist, and presently condemn the plot; 
whereas, if they would but expect the 
winding up of things, and stay till the last 
close, they should then see them come off 
with shame and sufficient punishment. 



It is in itself fit that there should be 
somewhere a doubtful and cloud y state of 
things, for the better exercise of virtue 
and faith. For, as there could have been 
no Hercules, had there not been monsters 
to subdue, so were there no such difficul- 
ties to encounter with, no puzzles and en- 
tanglements of things, no temptations and 
trials to assault us, virtue would grow lan- 
guid, and that excellent grace of faith 
want due occasions and objects to exer- 
cise itself upon. Here have we therefore 
such a state of things, and this world is, 
as it were, a stage erected for the more 
difficult part of virtue to act upon, and 
where we are to live by faith, and not by 
sight ; that faith, which is " the substance 
of things to be hoped for, and the evi- 
dence of things not seen ;" a belief in the 
goodness, power, and wisdom of God, 
when all things are dark and cloudy round 
about us. " The just shall live by his 
faith." Ralph Cudworth. 


In judging of the works of God, we 
ought not to consider the parts of the 
world alone by themselves ; and then, be- 
cause we could fancy much finer things, 
thereupon blame the maker of the whole. 
As if one should attend only to this earth, 
which is but the lowest and most dreggy 
part of the universe ; or blame plants, be- 
cause they have not sense ; brutes, be- 
cause they have not reason; men, be- 
cause they are not demons or angels ; and 
angels, because they are not gods, or want 
divine perfection. Upon which account 
God should either have made nothing at 
all, since there can be nothing besides 
himself absolutely perfect, or else nothing 
but the higher rank of angelical beings, 
free from mortality and all those other 
evils that attend mankind, or such fine 
things as Epicurus's gods were feigned 
to be, living in certain delicious regions, 
where there was neither blustering winds, 
nor any lowering clouds, nor nipping 
frosts, nor scorching heat, nor night, nor 
shadow, but the calm and unclouded 
ether, always smiling with gentle serenity; 
whereas, were there but one kind of thing 
(the best) thus made, there could have 
been no music nor harmony at all in the 
world, for want of variety. But we ought, 
in the first place, to consider the whole, 

whether that be not the best that could 
be made, having all that belongeth to it ; 
and then the parts in reference to the 
whole, whether they be not, in their seve- 
ral degrees and ranks, congruous and 
agreeable thereunto. But this is a thing 
which hath been so well insisted upon by 
Plotinus, that we cannot speak better to 
it than in his words : " God made the 
whole most beautiful, entire, complete, 
and sufficient ; all agreeing friendly with 
itself and its parts ; both the nobler and 
the meaner of them being alike congruous 
thereunto. Whosoever, therefore, from 
the parts thereof, will blame the whole, is 
an absurd and unjust censurer. For we 
ought to consider the parts, not aloue by 
themselves, but in reference to the whole, 
whether they be harmonious and agree- 
able to the same. Otherwise we shall not 
blame the universe, but some of its parts 
only, taken by themselves ; as if one 
should blame the hair or toes of a man, 
taking no notice at all of his divine visage 
and countenance ; or omitting all other 
animals, one should attend only to the 
most contemptible of them ; or, lastly, 
overlooking all other men, consider oniy 
the most deformed Thersites. But that 
which God made, was the whole as one 
thing ; which he that attends to may hear 
it speaking to him after this manner: 
' God Almighty hath made me, and from 
thence came I, perfect and complete, and 
standing in need of nothing, because in 
me are contained all things, plants and 
animals, and good souls, and men happy 
with virtue. Nor is the earth alone in me 
adorned with all manner of plants and 
variety of animals ; or does the power of 
soul extend at most no further than to the 
seas ; as if the whole air, and ether, and 
heaven, in the mean time, were quite de- 
void of sold, and altogether unadorned 
with living inhabitants. Moreover, all 
things in me desire good, and everything 
reaches to it, according to its power and 
nature. For some things in me partake 
only of being, some of life also, some of 
sense, some of reason, and some of intel- 
lect above reason. But no man ought to 
require equal things from unequal; nor 
that the finger should see, but the eye ; it 
being enough for the finger to be a finger, 
and to perform its own office.' " And 
again, afterwards, " We are like unskil- 
ful spectators of a picture, who condemn 
the lininer, because he hath not put 
bright colours everywhere ; whereas he 
had suited his colours to every part re- 




spectively, giving to each such as belong- 
ed to it. Or else are we like those who 
would blame a comedy or tragedy, be- 
cause they were not all kings or heroes 
that acted in it, but some servants and 
rustic clowns, introduced also, talking 

after their rude fashion. "Whereas the 
dramatic poem would neither be complete, 
nor elegant and delightful, were all those 
worser parts taken out of it." 

Ralph Cudworth. 


dean of Peterborough, bishop of Chichester, and afterwards of Ely, was born at 
Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, on the 8th of September 1626. He went to a school 
kept by Merryweather who translated into Latin sir Thomas Brown's Religio Me- 
dici, was admitted into Queen's College, Cambridge in 1644, and, about 1651, re- 
ceived holy orders from bishop Hall who then, ejected from his bishoprick, lived at 
Heigham. In 1662 the earl of Bedford gave him the living of St. Paul's, Covent 
Garden. He was one of the few clergymen who refused to leave their parishioners ; 
during the great plague of 1665: his friends in the country, who had faster hold of 
him than anything in this world, desired to see him once more, but his love for them 
did not move him : he answered that he could not tell what good he might do to 
the souls of those whom he had in charge, but he was sure while he stayed he should 
do good to their bodies, and perhaps save some from perishing. In 1679 he was 
made dean of Peterborough, in 1689 bishop of Chichester, and in 1691 bishop of 
Ely. He died at Ely on the 31st of May 1707, and was buried in the cathedral. 

Bishop Patrick published very many sermons and treatises. The passages which 
follow are taken from the Parable of a Pilgrim, which was written in 1663, and first 
printed, according to Watt's Bibliotheca Britannica, in 1665 or 1666. It has been 
supposed, and is probable, that Bunyan, whose Pilgrim's Progress was written during 
an imprisonment which lasted from 1660 to 1672, took from Patrick the general 
notion of his allegory, which Patrick himself had borrowed from a short discourse 
under the same title of the Parable of a Pilgrim. There is, however, no resemblance 
between the works of John Bunyan and of the bishop, excepting that in each the 
pilgrim, finding no rest in the country where he dwelt, seeks for and travels towards 
a better. Bunyan's story is carried on in action, and Patrick's in discourse ; the one 
is a dramatick, and the other a didactick allegory. Patrick had not the genius of Bun- 
yan, and as a tale his book is wearisome; but it is full of beautiful passages, and of the 
spirit of love to his neighbour as well as to his God, by which the author was distin- 
guished, and because of which he was reproached by the zealous of his own party for 
favouring the Dissenters. 


You cannot have a better guard, nor be 
put into a place of greater assurance, if 
you seek over all the world for it, than 
that to which humility will lead you. For 
making you distrustful of your own power 
and strength, it will urge you to a con- 
tinual dependence upon your Lord, with- 
out whom you feel that nothing, much 
less such an excellent thing as you design, 

can be achieved. We accuse very much 
the weakness of our nature, we complain 
heavily of the body of flesh and blood, 
which continually betrays us ; we conceit 
that we should do rare things, were we 
but once quit of this load of earth, and 
suffered to move in the free and yielding 
air. But let me tell you, and believe it 
for a truth, though we had no society 
with a terrestrial nature ; nay, though our 
minds were free and clear from all mortal 



concretion ; though we had no clothes at 
all to hinder our motion ; yet our ruin 
might arise out of our spirits, and hy 
pride and self-confidence we might throw 
ourselves down into utter destruction. 
For what commerce, I pray you, had the 
apostate angels with our corporeal nature? 
what familiarity with a body ? do we not 
conceive them to have been pure spirits 
separated from all earthly contagion ? and 
yet by placing all in themselves, by being 
puffed up in their own thoughts, and not 
acknowledging their need of the divine 
presence and assistance, we conclude that 
they tumbled themselves into an abyss of 
misery and woe irrecoverable. Now, they 
are in a worse condition than if they were 
spirits of a smaller size : now, the torment 
they suffer is proportionable to the noble- 
ness of their nature. For the sharper and 
quicker the mind is, and the greater its 
endowments are which it hath received, 
the greater mischief doth it bring upon 
itself, and the sadder are its perplexities 
when it is destitute of the special help and 
presence of God. As a great giant being 
blinded must needs tumble more grie- 
vously, and give himself sorer knocks than 
he would have done, if he had not been 
of so huge a bulk ; so a mind and reason 
elevated to a higher pitch than others, 
is carried headlong into a heavier ruin, 
when it is deprived of that divine light 
which is necessary for its guidance and 
preservation. Excellency of nature there- 
fore little profits, if God be not present 
with it ; and he absents himself from all 
that place not their strength, sufficiency 
and safeguard in him, but in themselves. 
And on the other side, fragility of nature 
is not that which will undo us, if the di- 
vine presence do not withdraw itself, 
which it never doth from humble and 
lowly minds that confide in him and not 
in their own power ; which, were it a 
thousand times greater than it is, would 
not be sufficient to conserve itself. Our 
pride and vanity, and forgetfulness of God 
then is that which we must accuse ; not 
the infirmity and craziness of our flesh ; 
for, as the excellency of the angelical na- 
ture could not save them when they dis- 
joined themselves from their creator, so 
the weakness of ours shall not harm us if 
we keep close to him, and never sever 
ourselves from that heavenly power which 
worketh mightily in us. It is humility 
that must fasten you to God, that will 
keep you in a constant adherence to him, 
and not let you stir a foot from him ; 

that will make you tremble to think of 
looking into yourself, and not behold him 
there. This is in effect your strength 
and salvation ; this supplies the defects of 
your nature ; this is the remedy of your 
infirmity ; and after a strange way this 
raises you above all the power of the 
world, by keeping you down, and pressing 
you very low in your own thoughts. 

I must not defraud it therefore of those 
just praises that are due to its virtue, 
which may recommend it more to your 
affections, and make its company more 
grateful in your travels. But it is fit you 
should know that this humility, which 
makes us seem so little or nothing in our 
own eyes, is one of the most glorious 
things in the world, and places a man 
among the ancient heroes. It is indeed 
the height and sublimity of our mind, the 
true gallantry of our spirits. It letting 
us see what poor despicable things we are, 
causes us to surmount ourselves, and to 
have no regard to such low and petty in- 
terests as those of our own. It is not a 
sneaking quality that dis -spirits the soul, 
and deprives it of all its force and vigour, 
but a generous disposition of mind, that 
will not suffer it to employ its forces upon 
such a mean and contemptible service as 
that of pleasing ourselves. Let it not 
seem a paradox to you, for there is no- 
thing truer, that pride and conceitedness 
are the qualities of base-bred souls, of 
feeble and ignoble minds ; and that low- 
liness is the endowment of a soul well 
born, nobly descended, and bravely edu- 
cated in the knowledge of the most ex- 
cellent things ; for whether is greater, I 
pray you, he that sets a value upon little 
trifles, or he that despises them? is it not 
he that despises them ? whose thoughts 
are taken up with sublimer objects, that 
make himself and all things here besides 
appear as nothing in his eyes. If one 
man thinks clay to be clay, and therefore 
treads upon it ; another thinks it to be 
gold, and therefore admires it ; which of 
these hath the braver mind ? Hath not 
he who doth not admire the clay, and 
embrace the dirt ? So he truly that calls 
himself but dust and ashes hath certainly 
a very great soid ; while he that under- 
standeth not, but hath himself in admi- 
ration, is a weak and basely-minded man. 
He hath a great spirit who makes no ac- 
count of those things which others are 
proud of. He is generous who despises 
things far greater than those, which others 
esteem the marks of their glory ; who doth 




not swell with high achievements whilst 
his envious neighbours are puffed up with 
evety trifle. Humility then you see is not 
sheepiness, but loftiness of mind and the 
most elevated pitch of tbe soul. It is not 
dejectedness of spirit, but a raised under- 
standing of God and of ourselves. And 
therefore let us be low (as one of the an- 
cient guides of the church advises) that 
we may be high. If we admire anything 
here, let it be the sublimity of humble 

I cannot conclude before I add for your 
further incitement, that humility is of an 
excellent good nature, and hath a singular 
obligingness in its constitution. It makes 
us no less acceptable unto men than unto 
God, and renders us amiable though we 
have nothing else to give us any advan- 
tage. Do you not see how intolerable the 
proud are ? and what is the reason of it, 
but because they scorn those who are not 
of their rank ? They cannot be obliged, 
because they think whatsoever you do is 
due to their merit. They would be loved 
by all, without loving again. They will 
command in all companies, and have every 
one yield to their humours. They will 
teach all, and learn of none. They are 
incapable of gratitude, and think you are 
honoured enough for your services, if they 
do but receive them. They would draw 
all to themselves, and are unacquainted 
with that which charms all the world, I 
mean bounty and liberality. The humble 
man, no doubt, then, is the most agreeable 
person upon earth ; whom you oblige by 
a good word, which he thinks he doth not 
deserve ; who thanks you for the smallest 
courtesy ; who had rather obey than rule ; 
who is desirous to learn of the meanest 
scholar ; who contemns nobody but him- 
self ; who loves though he be not loved ; 
who thinks nothing too much to do for 
those that esteem him ; and who is afraid 
he hath never recompensed enough the 
civilities which are done unto him; in 
short, this humility is of such great value, 
and so good-natured, that there is nothing 
comparable to it but its twin sister divine 
charity. Simon Patrick. 


They passed with much pleasure a long 
stage of their journey, at the end of 
which, being thirsty, they called at a 
place where one would think that heaven 

designed to give the pilgrim an example 
of innocent pleasure ; for here they found 
a knot of loving neighbours at a frugal 
dinner, who seemed to feast one another 
more with their mutual good conversa- 
tion than with any other cheer that was 
provided. Their eyes told that they were 
very merry; and that there was a true 
love in their hearts, their countenance 
and free converse did plainly declare. 
There was nothing superfluous, but all 
very handsome ; no looseness, but great 
freedom ; no noise, but much innocent 
pleasure. They were disposed to mirth 
rather than joy, to cheerfulness rather 
than jollity ; and to entertain themselves 
with a grateful variety rather than abun- 
dance of meat and drink. This sight 
did very much affect the young man's 
heart, and when they were gone he be- 
gan to speak in the praise of temperance, 
and to commend their happiness who 
could contain themselves within the limits 
of sobriety, " For this," said he, " is the 
mistress of health, and also of wise and 
pure thoughts. It refreshes the body, 
and doth not burden the mind. It casts 
down neither of them to the ground, but 
raiseth both to their just pitch of plea- 
sure. It continues us free and fit for any 
employment, but especially that of thank- 
ing God for all his blessings, which is the 
noblest of all. It leaves us capable to 
enjoy the things of the other world, when 
we have enjoyed as much as we please of 
this. It suffers reason to retain its throne, 
or rather exalts and advances its supre- 
macy every day to a greater height. Nay, 
it preserves our taste, and renders our 
palate more exact than other men's are ; 
for all the senses, I persuade myself, 
when ruled by reason, must needs be 
more upright judges than when that is 
absent and set aside. And therefore, me- 
thinks, there is nothing more preserves 
the honour and reverence that is due to 
our natures than this virtue. It main- 
tains the majesty of our countenance, the 
lustre of our eyes, the graceful deport- 
ment of our whole man. Whereas all the 
world confesses, and it is their common 
speech, that a man in drink is nothing 
else but a man disguised. He looks 
basely ; he is the scorn of children and 
fools ; he is pointed and laughed at, as if 
he were some monster; he is the sport 
and merriment even of those who have 
thus disrobed him of himself. And as 
for them whose brains are so strong that 
they have overcome him, and think it an 



honour to be able to hold more than the 
rest of their fellows, this glory is their 
shame. They are the vermin of the 
earth, who live to consume the goods of 
others, and to waste the patrimony of 
the poor. And when they brag of their 
victories, they are so silly as not to re- 
member what one of the philosophers 
saith, that they are overcome by the 
hogshead, which is far more capacious 
than themselves. Nay, I cannot but 
think those people who know no pleasure 
but high fare, the joy of whose life de- 
pends upon full tables, and as full bellies, 
who love nothing like feasts, and would 
have them as sumptuous as sacrifices, be 
a sort of creatures much inferior to some 
beasts ; who, though they are not capable 
to govern themselves, yet are ruled by us, 
and rendered serviceable and profitable to 
the world. But these are good for no- 
thing but only to devour ; and commonly 
they follow this trade so long that they 
devour themselves and all that belongs 
unto them." 

" No doubt," said the good father (who 
here thought fit to interrupt him), " the 
praises which you bestow upon tem- 
perance are very just, and you can never 
commend it to excess ; which procures 
me therefore the greater grief, when I see 
so few in the world who live according to 
the rules of this virtue ; then- number is 
very small who are not corrupted with the 
love of these sensual pleasures. Though 
they do not fall into such high debauches 
as you speak of, not drinking as if they 
were in a perpetual fever, nor eating as if 
they were laying in provision for a long 
siege (which methinks is a good descrip- 
tion which I have heard some give of 
their excess), yet they are not many who 
measure their meals by their needs ; and 
they are not to be told who are bibbers of 
wine, and love to sit long at compota- 
tions, and design to make provision for 
the flesh, that they may fulfil the lusts 
thereof. Nay, which is saddest of all, 
there are too many of those who profess 
to be religious, whose god is their belly ; 
they love feasts and hunt after good cheer ; 
and' if it be but sanctified with a sermon, 
gormandize is innocent in their account. 
Like some naughty christians in the elder 
times, who thought they might carouse 
and drink as long as they would, so they 
did but sit with a mortified face upon the 
martyrs' tombs. And it were some com- 
fort if their sin ended here, but their in- 
temperance is the mother and faithful 

parent of many other rices. A long train 
of sins as well as of diseases waits upon 
this, and follows it just at the heels. It 
both brings in and it uncovers every other 
evil inclination. It removes that modesty 
which stands more in the way than any- 
thing else of most men's bad endeavours. 
It banishes all shame, so that there is 
nothing left to oppose any wickedness. 
' Who hath woe, who hath sorrow, who 
hath contention, who hath babbling, who 
hath wounds without cause ? They that 
tarry long at wine, they that go to seek 
mixt wine ?' as the wise man tells us. 
Whatsoever evil dispositions are in the 
mind, then they take opportunity to show 
themselves. Malice is brought into open 
show, and spits its venom. The proud 
spirit is laid bare, and seeks no pretence 
for its insolence. The furious man is left 
naked of all his guards, and cares not 
whom he mischiefs. The lustful man un- 
covers himself, and scarce waits for secresA 
to fulfil his desires. And truly I wish I 
could not say that this folly, which is the 
most filthy of all, was not the common 
issue of that of which we speak. Nor 
will I say any more of the rest of those 
sins which attend upon an intemperate 
life, which makes a man's soul like a 
piece of low ground, which, by reason of 
abundance of wet, brings forth nothing 
but frogs, and worms, and adders, all 
manner of wickedness, which either dis- 
honours God or hurts ourselves and our 
neighbours. I will rather turn my eyes 
to a more pleasant sight, and comfort 
them with the remembrance of those good 
men whom we saw just now so happily 
met together. And methinks it is a very 
great felicity in this false world, to find 
but one face among so many vizors, and 
to be able to lay hold on something that 
hath truth and substance in it among so 
many shadows. Having found, therefore, 
a little number of seriously sober persons, 
it cannot but make me rejoice the more 
that temperance hath some clients, and 
that she is not forsaken of all her fol- 

" But though this be very true, that we 
do deservedly praise this virtue and all 
her servants, yet methinks you should 
have observed something else at that 
meeting which is worthy of your com- 
mendation. Did not the very meeting 
itself seem a very comely sight ? and 
were you not glad to behold so many 
kind neighbours assembled at that decent 
entertainment ? To me there is not a 



more agreeable spectacle than a company 
of select friends, vacant of business, and 
full of cheerfulness, met together at one 
table. And I cannot imagine that a man 
who understands pleasure can wish any 
equal to this, that he might make one in 
such a happy society. You may think, 
indeed, that it is sufficient to our delight 
if we can meet our friends anywhere ; 
but I am of the mind that the pleasure 
is redoubled, when they refresh their 
bodies and their minds both together. 
I hate indeed your great feasts, where 
persons who never saw one the other 
before, nor ever shall perhaps again, are 
mixed together ; where there is much 
talk, and little or no discourse : but these 
love-feasts, methinks, do call to my mind 
the days of innocence, and make me wish 
for nothing, when I enjoy them, but only 
such another pleasure. Here we know 
that we pledge a hearty love, when a 

man presents his kindness to us. Our 
mind is entertained with a greater variety 
than the body enjoys. The very taste of 
our meat is exalted by the inward delight 
which we feel in our hearts. And what- 
soever satisfaction we then receive, we 
impart as much to those that gave it. 
The weak and languishing appetite is ex- 
cited by the sight of friends and the 
pleasure of their discourse, and the dis- 
course flows more freely by the moderate 
satisfaction of our appetite. Our dull 
spirits are raised by communication with 
our friends ; and that communication 
grows more lively by the exaltation of 
our spirits ; or if you please so to con- 
sider it, friends never talk with greater 
wit and more freedom than when they 
take an innocent repast together, and 
their meat never doth their bodies more 
good than when this sweet conversation 
is the sauce for it." Simon Patrick. 


author of The Pilgrim's Progress, was born in the year 1628, at Elstow near Bedford, 
and being the son of a tinker, followed his father's trade. In his youth he was a 
curser and swearer and a sabbath-breaker, but he did not plunge into the vices which 
thoroughly pollute and harden men's hearts, and the voice of conscience often terri- 
fied him. He married about the age of nineteen, and soon afterward fell in company 
with a poor man who talked to him concerning religion and the scriptures in a manner 
that took his attention and sent him to his Bible. Then his conscience smote him 
more fiercely, and he went through two years of remorse, in which the visions and 
voices of his fancy under strong excitement seemed realities, and were full of horror. 
This dark tempest passed away, and in a happier state of feeling he joined a meeting 
of Baptists at Bedford, and went preaching in the surrounding villages. In the year 
1660, and but a few months after the restoration of Charles II., he was tried for up- 
holding conventicles or meeting-houses, and for that offence suffered imprisonment in 
Bedford jail for twelve years, though in the last four he was allowed, by the kindness 
of his jailer, to go into the town, and in the eleventh year was chosen minister of 
the Baptist meeting. In 1672 he was set free, and preached in Bedford and the 
neighbourhood, and in London where multitudes followed him. He died on the 12th 
of August 1688, at the house of his friend Mr. Stradwick, a grocer, at the sign of the 
Star, on Snow-hill in London, and was buried in Bunhill-fields. 

In conversation Bunyan was mild and affable, not given to much discourse in com- 
pany, and seeming low in his own eyes. He was no revenger of injuries, but loved 
to reconcile differences and make friendship with all. In countenance he seemed of 
a rough and stern temper, and that there was something of austerity in his manners 
may be gathered from his rebuke of the pleasant mode of salutation used in that 
day, although, even here, good-nature beams through his severity, in the just reproof 
that the salute was not general, that offensive preferences and slights were shown. 



" These know," said he, " and can also bear me witness with whom I have been 
most intimately concerned, that it is a rare thing to see me carry it pleasant towards 
a woman. The common salutation of women I abhor ; 't is odious to me in whom- 
soever I see it. Their company alone I cannot away with ! I seldom so much as 
touch a woman's hand, for I think these things are not so becoming me. When I 
have seen good men salute those women that they have visited, or that have visited 
them, I have at times made my objection against it ; and when they have answered 
that it was but a piece of civility, I have told them it is not a comely sight. Some 
indeed have urged the holy kiss ; but then I have asked why they made baulks ? why 
they did salute the most handsome and let the ill-favoured go ?" 

He has been well called the prince of all allegorists in prose. Of many books 
which he wrote, The Pilgrim's Progress, written in prison and first published about 
1672, has made his name famous. No other prose writer has succeeded in keeping 
attention awake through an allegory of equal length. He had good homely wit, 
powerful imagination, strong sense, and said out his say in his own native lan- 
guage. He was long popular among the common people, chiefly among the Dis- 
senters, before his claim to rank among English classieks was allowed. Swift and 
Dr. Johnson had acknowledged the worth of the Pilgrim's Progress, but 't was 
caviare to the general, and Cowper, when he wrote the Tirocinium, was afraid to 
name the author, lest he should provoke a sneer. It is now otherwise : in the lan- 
guage of his biographer, Southey, " his fame may literally be said to have risen ; be- 
ginning among the people, it has made its way up to those who are called the 


But now, in this valley of humiliation, 
poor Christian was hard put to it, for he 
had gone but a little way before he espied 
a foul fiend coming over the field to meet 
him ; his name is Apollyon. Then did 
Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast 
in his mind whether to go back or to 
stand his ground ; but he considered 
again that he had no armour for his back, 
and therefore thought that to turn the 
back to him might give him greater ad- 
vantage with ease to pierce him with his 
darts, therefore he resolved to venture 
and stand his ground ; for, thought he, 
had I no more in my eye than the saving 
of my life, 'twould be the best way to 

So he went on, and Apollyon met him. 
Now the monster was hideous to behold ; 
he was clothed with scales like a fish (and 
they are his pride), he had wings like a 
dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his 
belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth 
was as the mouth of a lion. When he 
came up to Christian he beheld him with 
a disdainful countenance, and thus began 
to question with him : — 

Apol. Whence come you, and whither 
are you bound ? 

Chr. I am come from the city of De- 
struction, which is the place of all evil, 
and I am going to the city of Zion. 

Apol. By this I perceive that thou art 
one of my subjects ; for all that country 
is mine, and I am the prince and god cf 
it. How is it, then, that thou hast run 
away from thy long ? Were it not that I 
hope thou mayest do me more service, I 
would strike thee now, at one blow, to 
the ground. 

Chr. I was indeed born in your do- 
minions, but your service was hard, and 
your wages such as a man could not live 
on, " for the wages of sin is death ;" 
therefore, when I was come to years, I 
did as other considerate persons do, look 
out, if perhaps I might mend myself. 

Apol. There is no prince that will thus 
lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as 
yet lose thee ; but since thou complainest 
of thy service and wages, be content to 
go back ; what our country will afford I 
do here promise to give thee. 

Chr. But I have let myself to another, 
even to the king of princes ; and how can 
I with fairness go back with thee ? 

Apol. Thou hast done in this accord- 
ing to the proverb, " change a bad for a 
worse." But it is ordinary for those that 
have professed themselves his servants, 



after a while, to give him the slip, and 
return again to me. Do thou so too, and 
all shall be well. 

Chr. I have given him my faith, and 
sworn my allegiance to him ; how then 
can I go back from this and not be 
hanged as a traitor ? 

Apol. Thou didst the same to me ; and 
yet I am willing to pass by all, if now 
thou wilt yet turn and go back. 

Chr. What I promised thee was in my 
nonage ; and, besides, I count that the 
Prince under whose banner now I stand 
is able to absolve me ; yea, and to pardon 
also what I did as to my compliance with 
thee; and, besides (0 thou destroying 
Apollyon !), to speak truth, I like his ser- 
vice, his wages, his servants, his govern- 
ment, his company and country, better 
than thine ; and therefore leave off to 
persuade me farther, I am his servant, and 
I will follow him. 

Apol. Consider again, when thou art in 
cool blood, what thou art like to meet 
with in the way that thou goest ; thou 
knowest that, for the most part, his ser- 
vants come to an ill end, because they are 
transgressors against me and my ways. 
How many of them have been put to 
shameful deaths ! And, besides, thou 
countest his service better than mine, 
whereas he never yet came from the place 
where he is to deliver any that served him 
out of my hands; but as for me, how 
many times, as all the world very well 
knows, have I delivered, either by power 
or fraud, those that have faithfully served 
me, from him and his, though taken by 
them ! and so will I deliver thee. 

Chr. His forbearing at present to de- 
liver them is on purpose to try their love, 
whether they will cleave to him to the 
end ; and as for the ill end thou sayest 
they come to, that is most glorious in 
their account ; for, for present deliverance, 
they do not much expect it ; for they stay 
for their glory, and then they shall have 
it, when their Prince comes in his, and 
the glory of the angels. 

Apol. Thou hast already been unfaith- 
ful in thy sendee to him, and how dost 
thou think to receive wages of him ? 

Chr. Wherein, O Apollyon, have I been 
unfaithful to him ? 

Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting 
out, when thou wast almost choked in 
the gulph of Despond ; thou didst at- 
tempt wrong ways to be rid of thy bur- 
den ; whereas thou shouldst have staid 
till thv Prince had taken it off. Thou 

didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice 
things ; thou wast also almost persuaded 
to go back at the sight of the lions, and 
when thou talkest of thy journey, and of 
what thou hast heard and seen, thou art 
inwardly desirous of vain-glory in all that 
thou sayest or dost. 

Chr. All this is true, and much more 
which thou hast left out ; but the Prince 
whom I serve and honour is merciful, and 
ready to forgive ; but, besides, these in- 
firmities possessed me in thy country, for 
there I sucked them in, and I have groaned 
under them, been sorry for them, and 
have obtained pardon of my Prince. 

Then Apollyon broke out into a grie- 
vous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this 
Prince ! I hate his person, laws and 
people, and am come out on purpose to 
withstand thee. 

Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do ; 
for I am in the king's highway, the way 
of holiness ; therefore take heed to your- 

Then Apollyon straddled quite over the 
w 7 hole breadth of the way, and said, I am 
void of fear in this matter, prepare thy- 
self to die ; for I swear by my infernal 
den that thou shalt go no farther ; here 
will I spill thy soul ! And with that he 
threw a flaming dart at his breast ; but 
Christian had a shield in his hand, with 
v. T hich he caught it, and so prevented the 
danger of that. 

Then did Christian draw, for he saw it 
was time to bestir him ; and Apollyon as 
fast made at him, throwing darts as thick 
as hail; by the which, notwithstanding 
all that Christian could do to avoid it, 
Apollyon wounded him in his head, his 
hand and foot. This made Christian give 
a little back ; Apollyon, therefore, fol- 
lowed his work amain, and Christian 
again took courage and resisted as man- 
fully as he could. This sore combat 
lasted for above half a day, even till 
Christian was almost quite spent ; for you 
must know that Christian, by reason of 
his w r ounds, must needs grow w r eaker and 

Then Apollyon, espying his opportu- 
nity, began to gather up close to Christian, 
and, wrestling with him, gave him a dread- 
ful fall, and with that Christian's sword 
flew out of his hand. Then said Apol- 
lyon, I am sure of thee now ; and with 
that he had almost pressed him to death, 
so that Christian began to despair of life. 
But, as God would have it, while Apol- 
lyon was fetching his last blow, thereby 



to make a full end of this good man, 
Christian nimbly reached out his hand 
for his sword, and caught it, saying, " Re- 
joice not against me, mine enemy ! 
when I fall I shall arise ;" and with that 
gave him a deadly thrust, which made 
him give back as one tbat had received 
his mortal wound. Christian perceiving 
that, made at him again, saying, " Nay, 
in all these things we are more than con- 
querors, through Him that loved us ;" 
and with that Apollyon spread forth his 
dragon's wings and sped him away, that 
Christian saw him no more. 

In this combat no man can imagine, 
unless he had seen and heard, as I did, 
what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon 
made all the time of the fight. He spake 
like a dragon; and, on the other side, 
what sighs and groans burst from Chris- 
tian's heart. . I never saw him all the 
while give so much as one pleasant look, 
till he perceived he had wounded Apol- 
lyon with his two-edged sword; then, in- 
deed, he did smile, and look upward ; but 
'twas the dreadfullest sight that ever I saw. 
John Bunyan. 


Now they began to go down the hill 
into the valley of humiliation. It was a 
steep hill, and the way was slippery ; but 
they were very careful ; so they got down 
pretty well. When they were down in 
the valley, Piety said to Christiana, this 
is the place where Christian, your hus- 
band, met with that foul fiend Apollyon, 
and where they had that dreadful fight 
that they had. I know you cannot but 
have heard thereof. But be of good 
courage ; as long as you have here Mr. 
Greatheart to be your guide and con- 
ductor, we hope you will fare the better. 
So when these two had committed the 
pilgrims unto the conduct of their guide, 
he went forward and they went after. 

Then said Mr. Greatheart, we need 
not be so afraid of this valley, for here is 
nothing to hurt us, unless we procure it 
to ourselves. 'T is true Christian did here 
meet with Apollyon, with whom he also 
had a sore combat ; but that fray was the 
fruit of those slips that he got in his going 
down the hill; for they that get slips 
there must look for combats here. And 
hence it is that this valley has got so hard 
a name ; for the common people, when 
they hear that some frightful thing has 

befallen such a one in such a place, are of 
opinion that that place is haunted with 
some foul fiend or evil spirit ; when, alas ! 
it is for the fruit of their own doing that 
such things do befal them there. 

This valley of humiliation is of itself 
as fruitful a place as any the crow flies 
over ; and I am persuaded, if we could hit 
upon it, we might find somewhere here- 
abouts, something that might give us an 
account why Christian was so hardly 
beset in this place. 

Then said James to his mother, lo ! 
yonder stands a pillar, and it looks as if 
something was written thereon : let us 
go and see what it is. So they went, and 
found there written, " Let Christian's 
slips, before he came hither, and the bat- 
tles that he met with in this place, be a 
warning to those that come after." Lo ! 
said their guide, did not I tell you that 
there was something hereabouts that 
would give intimation of the reason why 
Christian was so hard beset in this place ? 
Then turning himself to Christiana, he 
said, no disparagement to Christian more 
than to many others whose hap and lot it 
was ; for it is easier going up than down 
this hill, and that can be said but of few 
hills in all these parts of the world. But 
we will leave the good man ; he is at rest ; 
he also had a brave victory over his 
enemy ; let Him grant, that dwelleth 
above, that we fare no worse, when we 
come to be tried, than he ! 

But we will come again to this valley of 
humiliation. It is the best and most fruit- 
ful piece of ground in all these parts. It 
is fat ground, and as you see, consisteth 
much in meadows ; and if a man was to 
come here in the summer-time, as we 
do now, if he knew not anything be- 
fore thereof, and if he also delighted 
himself in the sight of his eyes, he might 
see that which woidd be delightful to 
him. Behold how green this valley is ! 
also how beautified with lilies ! I have 
known many labouring men that have 
got good estates in this valley of humi- 
liation. " For God resisteth the proud, 
but giveth grace to the humble ;" for in- 
deed it is a very fruitful soil, and doth 
bring forth by handfuls. Some also have 
wished that the next way to their Father's 
house were here, that they might be trou- 
bled no more with either hills or moun- 
tains to go over ; but the way is the way, 
and there 's an end. 

Now, as they were going along and 
talking, they espied a boy feeding his fa- 




ther's sheep. The boy was in very mean 
clothes, but of a fresh and well-favoured 
countenance, and as he sat by himself, he 
sung. Hark, said Mr. Greatheart, to 
what the shepherd's boy saith! so they 
hearkened, and he said, 

He that is down needs fear no fall ; 

He that is low no pride; 
He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his guide. 
I am content with what I have, 

Little be it or much ; 
And, Lord ! contentment still I crave, 

Because thou savest such. 
Fulness to such a burden is, 

That go on pilgrimage : 

Here little, and hereafter bliss, 

Is best from age to age. 

Then said their guide, do you hear 
him ? I will dare to say this boy lives a 
merrier life and wears more of that herb 
called heart's-ease in his bosom than he 
that is clad in silk and velvet ! but we 
will proceed in our discourse. 

In this valley our Lord formerly had 
his country-house. He loved much to be 
here; he loved also to walk these mea- 
dows, for he found the air was pleasant. 
Besides, here a man shall be free from 
the noise and from the hurryings of this 
life. All states are full of noise and con- 
fusion ; only the valley of humiliation is 
that empty and solitary place. Here a 
man shall not be so let and hindered in 
his contemplation as in other places he is 
apt to be. This is a valley that nobody 
walks in but those that love a pilgrim's 
life. And though Christian had the hard 
hap to meet here with Apollyon, and to 
enter with him in a brisk encounter, yet 
I must tell you, that in former times men 
have met with angels here; have found 
pearls here ; and have in this place found 
the words of life. 

Did I say our Lord had here, in former 
days, his country-house, and that he loved 
here to walk ? I will add, in this place, 
and to the people that love and trace 
these grounds, he has left a yearly re- 
venue, to be faithfully paid them at cer- 
tain seasons, for their maintenance by the 
way, and for their further encouragement 
to go on in their pilgrimage. 

Now as they went on, Samuel said to 
Mr. Greatheart, sir, I perceive that in 
this valley my father and Apollyon had 
their battle ; but whereabout was the 
fight ? for I perceive this valley is large. 

Greatheart. Your father had the battle 
with Apollyon at a place yonder before 
us, in a narrow passage, just beyond For- 
getful-green. And indeed that place is 

the most dangerous place in all these 
parts. For if at any time pilgrims meet 
with any brunt, it is when they forget 
what favours they have received, and .how 
unworthy they are of them. 

Then said Mercy, I think I am as well 
in this valley as I have been anywhere 
else in all our journey. The place, me- 
thinks, suits with my spirit. I love to be 
in such places, where there is no rattling 
with coaches nor rumbling with wheels. 
Methinks here one may,without much mo- 
lestation, be thinking what he is, whence 
he came, what he has done, and to what 
the King has called him. Here one may 
think, and break at heart, and melt in 
one's spirit, until one's eyes become as 
the " fish-pools of Heshbon." They that 
go rightly through this valley of Baca 
make it a well ; the rain that God sends 
down from heaven upon them that are 
here, " also filleth the pools." This valley 
is that from whence also the king will 
give to his their vineyards ; and they that 
go through it shall sing, as Christian did, 
for all he met with Apollyon. 

'T is true, saidjtheir guide, I have gone 
through this valley many a time, and 
never was better than when here. I have 
also been a conductor to several pilgrims, 
and they have confessed the same. " To 
this man will I look (saith the King), 
even to him that is poor, and of a con- 
trite spirit, and that trembleth at my 
word." John Bunyan. 


Now I saw in my dream that Christian 
went not forth alone, for there was one 
whose name was Hopeful, who joined 
himself unto him, and entering into a 
brotherly covenant, told him that he 
would be his companion. 

So I saw that quickly they overtook 
one that was going before them, whose 
name was By-ends ; so they said to him, 
what countryman, sir? and how far go 
you this way ? He told them that he 
came from the town of Fair-speech, and 
that he was going to the celestial city; 
but told them not his name. 

From Fair-speech, said Christian : is 
there any good that lives there ? 

Yes, said By-ends, I hope. 

Pray, sir, what may I call you? said 



By-ends. I am a stranger to you, and 
you to me : if you be going this way, I 
shall be glad of your company ; if not, I 
must be content. 

This town of Fair-speech, said Chris- 
tian, I have heard of; and as I remember, 
they say it's a wealthy place. 

By-ends. Yes, I will assure you that it 
is ; and I have very many rich kindred 

Chr. Pray, who are your kindred there, 
if a man may be so bold ? 

By-ends. Almost the whole town ; but, 
in particular, my lord Turn-about, my 
lord Time-server, my lord Fair-speech 
(from whose ancestors that town first 
took its name) ; also Mr. Smooth-man, 
Mr. Facing-bothways, Mr. Any-thing; 
and the parson of our parish, Mr. Two- 
tongues, was my mother's own brother 
by father's side ; and, to tell you the truth, 
I am become a gentleman of good qua- 
lity ; yet my great grandfather was but a 
waterman, looking one way and rowing 
another ; and I got most of my estate by 
the same occupation. 

Chr. Are you a married man ? 

By-ends. Yes; and my wife -is a very 
virtuous woman, the daughter of a vir- 
tuous woman ; she was my lady Feign- 
ing' s daughter; therefore she came of a 
very honourable family, and is arrived to 
such a pitch of breeding, that she knows 
how to carry it to all, even to prince and 
peasant, 'f is true we somewhat differ 
in religion from those of the stricter sort ; 
yet but in two small points : first, we 
never strive against wind and tide ; se- 
condly, we are always most zealous when 
religion goes in his silver slippers : we 
love much to walkwith him in the street, if 
the sun shines and the people applaud him. 

Then Christian stepped a little aside to 
his fellow Hopeful, saying, it runs in my 
mind that this is one By-ends of Fair- 
speech ; and if it be he, we have as very 
a knave in our company as dwelleth in 
all these parts. Then said Hopeful, ask 
him ; methinks he should not be ashamed 
of his name. So Christian came up with 
him again, and said, sir, you talk as if 
you knew something more than all the 
world doth ; and if I take not my mark 
amiss, I deem I have half a guess of you ; 
is not your name Mr. By-ends of Fair- 
speech ? 

By -ends. This is uot my name ; but 
indeed it is a nickname that is given me 
by some that cannot abide me ; and I 
must be content to bear it as a reproach, 

as other good men have borne theirs be- 
fore me. 

Chr. But did you never give an occa- 
sion to men to call you by this name ? 

By- ends. Never, never ! the worst that 
ever I did to give them an occasion to 
give me this name was, that I had always 
the luck to jump in my judgment with 
the present way of the times, whatever it 
was, and my chance was to get thereby ; 
but if things are thus cast upon me, let 
me count them a blessing ; but let not the 
malicious load me therefore with reproach. 

Chr. I thought, indeed, that you were 
the man that I heard of ; and to tell you 
what I think, I fear this name belongs to 
you more properly than you are willing 
we should think it doth. 

By-ends. Well, if you will thus ima- 
gine, I cannot help it. You shall find me 
a fair company-keeper if you will still 
admit me your associate. 

Chr. If you will go with us you must go 
against wind and tide, the which, Iperceive 
is against your opinion : you must also 
own rehgion in his rags as well as when 
in his silver slippers ; and staud by him 
too when bound in irons, as well as when 
he w'alketh the streets with applause. 

By-ends. You must not impose nor lord 
it over my faith ; leave me to my liberty 
and let me go with you. 

Chr. Not a step farther, unless you will 
do, in what I propound, as we. 

Then, said By-ends, I shall never desert 
my old principles, since they are harmless 
and profitable. If I may not go with you, 
I must do as I did before you overtook 
me, even go by myself, until some over- 
take me that will be glad of my company. 

Now 7 1 saw in my dream that Christian 
and Hopeful forsook him, and kept their 
distance before him ; but one of them 
looking back saw three men following Mr. 
By-ends ; and behold, as they came up 
with him, he made them a very low 
congee, and they also gave Mm a com- 
pliment. The men's names were, Mr. 
Hold-the-world, Mr. Money -love, and Mr. 
Save-all ; men that Mr. By-ends had for- 
merly been acquainted with ; for in their 
minority they were schoolfellows, and 
were taught by one Mr. Gripeman, a 
schoolmaster in Love-gain, winch is a 
market-tow^n in the county of Coveting, 
in the north. This schoolmaster taught 
them the art of getting, either by violence, 
cozenage, flattery, lying, or by putting on 
a guise of rehgion ; and these four gen- 
tlemen had attained much of the art of 



their master, so that they could each of 
them have kept such a school themselves. 

Well, when they had, as I said, thus 
saluted each other, Mr. Money-love said 
to Mr. By-ends, who are they upon the 
road before us ? for Christian and Hope- 
ful were yet within view. 

By-ends. They are a couple of far 
countrymen that, after their mode, are 
going on pilgrimage. 

Money-love. Alas ! why did they not 
stay, that we might have had their good 
company? for they, and we, and you, sir, 
I hope, are all going on a pilgrimage. 

By-ends. We are so, indeed ; hut the 
men before us are so rigid, and love so 
much their own notions, and do also so 
lightly esteem the opinions of others, that 
let a man be never so godly, yet, if he 
jumps not with them in all things, they 
thrust him quite out of their company. 

Mr. Save-all. That 's bad ; but we read 
of some that are righteous over much; 
and such men's rigidness prevails with 
them to judge and condemn all but them- 
selves. But, I pray, what and how many 
were the things wherein you differed ? 

By-ends. Why they, after their head- 
strong manner, conclude that it is duty to 
rush on their journey all weathers, and I 
am for waiting for wind and tide. They 
are for hazarding all for God at a clap, 
and I am for taking all advantages to 
secure my life and estate. They are for 
holding their notions, though all other 
men be against them ; but I am for reli- 
gion in what and so far as the times and 
my safety will bear it. They are for re- 
ligion when in rags and contempt ; but I 
am for him when he walks in his silver 
slippers, in the sunshine, and with ap- 

Mr. Hold-the-world. Ay, and hold you 
there still, good Mr. By-ends ! for, for my 
part, I can count him but a fool that, 
having the liberty to keep what he has, 
shall be so unwise to lose it. Let us be 
wise as serpents ; it 's best to make hay 
while the sun shines ; you see how the 
bee lieth still all winter, and bestirs her 
only when she can have profit with plea- 
sure. God sends sometimes rain and 
sometimes sunshine ; if they be such fools 
to go through the first, yet let us be con- 
tent to take fair weather along with us. 
For my part, I like that religion best that 
will stand with the security of God's 
good blessings unto us ; for who can ima- 
gine, that is ruled by his reason, since 
God has bestowed upon us the good 

things of this life, but that he would have 
us keep them for his sake ? Abraham 
and Solomon grew rich in religion ; and 
Job says, that a good man " shall lay up 
gold as dust." But he must not be such 
as the men before us, if they be as you 
have described them. 

Mr. Save-all. I think that we are all 
agreed in this matter, and therefore there 
needs no more words about it. 

Mr. Money -love. No, there needs no 
more words about this matter indeed; 
for he that believes neither scripture nor 
reason (and you see we have both on our 
side), neither knows his own liberty, nor 
seeks his own safety. 

Mr. By-ends. My brethren, we are, as 
you see, going all on pilgrimage, and, for 
our better diversion from things that are 
bad, give me leave to propound unto you 
this question : — 

Suppose a man, a minister, or a trades- 
man, &c, should have an advantage he 
before him to get the good blessings of 
this life, yet so as that he can by no means 
come by them, except, in appearance at 
least, he becomes extraordinary zealous 
in some points of religion that he meddled 
not with before : may he not use this 
means to attain his end, and yet be a 
right honest man ? 

Mr. Money-love. I see the bottom of 
your question ; and, with these gentle- 
men's good leave, I will endeavour to 
shape you an answer. And first, to speak 
to your question, as it concerneth a mini- 
ster himself : suppose a minister, a worthy 
man, possessed but of a very small bene- 
fice, and has in his eye a greater, more 
fat and plump by far ; he has also now an 
opportunity of getting it, yet so as by 
being more studious, by preaching more 
frequently and zealously, and because the 
temper of the people requires it, by alter- 
ing of some of his principles. For my 
part, I see no reason why a man may not 
do this (provided he has a call), ay, and 
more a great deal besides, and yet be an 
honest man. For why ? 

1. His desire of a greater benefice is 
lawful (this cannot be contradicted), since 
't is set before him by Providence ; so 
then he may get it if he can, making no 
question for conscience sake. 

2. Besides, his desire after that benefice 
makes him more studious, a more zealous 
preacher, &c, and so makes him a better 
man ; yea, makes him better improve his 
parts, which is according to the mind of 



3. Now, as for his complying with the 
temper of his people, by deserting, to 
serve them, some of his principles, this 
argueth, — (1.) that he is of a self-denying 
temper ; (2.) of a sweet and winning de- 
portment; and (3.) so more fit for the 
ministerial function. 

4. I conclude, then, that a minister 
that changes a small for a great, should 
not, for so doing, be judged as covetous ; 
but rather, since he is improved in his 
parts and industry thereby, be counted as 
one that pursues his call, and the oppor- 
tunity put into his hand to do good. 

And now to the second part of the 
question, which concerns the tradesman 
you mentioned : suppose such an one to 
have but a poor employ in the world, but, 
by becoming religious, he may mend his 
market, perhaps get a rich wife, or more 
and far better customers to his shop ; for 
my part, I see no reason but this may be 
lawfully done. For why ? 

1. To become religious is a virtue, by 
what means soever a man becomes so. 

2. Nor is it unlawful to get a rich wife, 
or more custom to my shop. 

3. Besides, the man that gets these by 
becoming religious, gets that which is 
good of them that are good, by becoming 
good himself; so then, here is a good 
wife, and good customers, and good gain, 
and all these by becoming religious, which 
is good, therefore to become religious to 
get all these is a good and profitable 

This answer, thus made by Mr. Money- 
love to Mr. By-ends' question, was highly 
applauded by them all; wherefore they 
concluded, upon the whole, that it was 
most wholesome and advantageous ; and 
because, as they thought, no man was 
able to contradict it, and because Chris- 
tian and Hopeful were yet within call, 
they jointly agreed to assault them with 
the question as soon as they overtook 
them ; and the rather, because they had 
opposed Mr. By-ends before. So they 
called after them, and they stopped and 
stood still till they came up to them ; but 
they concluded, as they went, that not 
Mr. By-ends, but old Mr. Hold-the-world 
should propound the question to them ; 
because, as they supposed, their answer 
to him would be without the remainder 
of that heat that was kindled betwixt Mr. 
By-ends and them, at their parting a 
little before. 

So they came up to each other ; and 
after a short salutation, Mr. Hold-the- 

world propounded the question to Chris- 
tian and his fellow, and bid them to 
answer it if they could. 

Then, said Christian, even a babe in 
religion may answer ten thousand such 
questions ; for if it be unlawful to follow 
Christ for loaves (as it is), how much 
more abominable is it to make of him and 
religion a stalking-horse, to get and enjoy 
the world ! Nor do we find any other 
than heathens, hypocrites, devils and 
witches, that are of this opinion. 

1. Heathens; for when Ham or and She- 
chem had a mind to the daughter and cat- 
tle of Jacob, and saw that there was no way 
for them to come at them but by being cir- 
cumcised, they said to their companions, 
" If every male of us be circumcised as 
they are circumcised, shall not their cattle 
and their substance, and every beast of 
theirs be ours?" Their daughters and 
their cattle were that which they sought 
to obtain, and their religion the stalking- 
horse they made use of to come at them. 
Read the whole story. 

2. The hypocritical pharisees were also 
of this religion. Long prayers were their 
pretence, but to get widows' houses was 
their intent ; and greater damnation was 
from God their judgment. 

3. Judas, the devil, was also of this 
religion : he was religious for the bag, 
that he might be possessed of what was 
put therein ; but he was lost, cast away, 
and the very son of perdition. 

4. Simon, the wizard, was of this reli- 
gion too ; for he would have had the Holy 
Ghost, that he might have got money 
therewith ; and his sentence from Peter's 
mouth was according. 

5. Neither will it out of my mind but 
that that man that takes up religion for 
the world, will throw away religion for 
the world; for so surely as Judas de- 
signed the world in becoming religious, 
so surely did he also sell religion and his 
Master for the same. To answer the 
question, therefore, affirmatively, as I per- 
ceive you have done, and to accept of, as 
authentic, such answer, is both heathenish, 
hypocritical, and devilish; and your re- 
ward will be according to yonr works. 

Then they stood staring one upon an- 
other, but had not wherewith to answer 
Christian. Hopeful also approved of the 
soundness of Christian's answer ; so there 
was a great silence amongst them. Mr. 
By-ends and his company also staggered 
and kept behind, that Christian and 
Hopeful might outgo them. Then said 


Christian to his fellow, if these men can- 
not stand before the sentence of men, 
what will they do with the sentence of 
God? and if they are mute when dealt 

with by vessels of clay, what will they do 
when they shall be rebuked by the flames 
of a devouring fire ? John Bunyan. 


was born at London in 1630, and having been taught for two or three years at the 
Charterhouse, and afterwards at Felsted in Essex, entered at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, in 1 645. In 1 655 he travelled through France and Italy to Constantinople, and 
returning by way of Germany and Holland, reached home in 1659, when he took holy 
orders. He was successively professor of Greek at Cambridge, of geometry at Gresham 
College, London, and Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge. In 1669 he 
resigned his mathematical professorship to sir Isaac Newton of whom he was the 
friend and patron, and devoted himself to preaching. In 1672 he was appointed 
master of Trinity College. He died in 1677, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

It is said that at the Charterhouse he made little progress in learning, and was 
noted for a love of quarrelling and fighting* ; but these follies passed away before his 
youth : he was but fifteen when he went to Cambridge, and even then was distin- 
guished for great abilities and good conduct. From that time, an example of every 
virtue, he was beloved by his friends and by all who came near him. Living in an age 
when religious and political strife was most virulent, and always firm to his principles 
as a loyalist, slander never touched him. He was without fear as without reproach : 
several instances of his courage have been handed down ; among others, that in his 
travels, sailing along the Ionian sea, his ship being grappled by an Algerine corsair, 
he fought bravely and stood to his gun until the pirate was beaten off. 

He was the first scholar of his day, and in mathematical learning second only to 
sir Isaac Newton; but he is now more generally known as a most eloquent divine. The 
man whom Warburton could not read without being obliged to think, whom lord 
Chatham recommended to his son for a full and majestick style, and in whom the wise 
and good who were his companions could find no fault, may be safely taken as a 
model of profound thought, lofty eloquence and christian virtue. Walter Savage 
Landor, a scholar and true critick, has given from the mouth of an imaginary character 
this estimate of Barrow : " My father, who knew the ancients intimately, said ' Taylor 
and Barrow are worth all their philosophers put together, and would be though they 
all were Christians. Plato and Xenophon as men of thought and genius, might walk 
without brushing their skirts between these two covers,' striking his hand on a volume 
of Barrow." 

* The exercises of a London scholar of the time preceding Dr. Barrow were not altogether peaceful. 
Stow, writing about 1598, tells that it had been the custom for the boys of the grammar schools of 
London to meet in the open air at the priory of St. Bartholomew in Smithfield, and upon the dissolu- 
tion of that priory, in the cloister of Christ's Hospital, to argue about the principles of grammar, and 
adds, that afterwards the scholars of St. Paul's and St. Anthony's schools, " mindful of the former 
usage, did, for a long season, disorderly in the open street, provoke one another with ' Salve :' ' Salve tu 
quoque.' 'Placet tibi mecum disputare P 'Placet :' and so, proceeding from this to questions in gram- 
mar, they usually fell from words to blows with their satchels full of books, many times in so great 
heaps that they troubled the streets and passengers." 




The proper objects of common mirth 
and sportful advertisement are mean and 
petty matters; anything at least is by 
playing therewith made such: great things 
arethereby diminished and debased ; espe- j 
cially sacred things do grievously suffer 
thence, being with extreme indecency and 
indignity depressed beneath themselves, 
when they become the subjects of flashy 
wit, or the entertainments of frothy mer- i 
riment : to sacrifice their honour to our j 
vain pleasure, being like the ridiculous 
fondness of that people, which, as Julian 
reporteth, worshipping a fly, did offer up 
an ox thereto. These things were by God j 
instituted and proposed to us for purposes j 
quite different; to compose our hearts 
and settle our fancies in a most serious j 
frame ; to breed inward satisfaction and 
joy purely spiritual ; to exercise our most j 
solemn thoughts and employ our gravest 
discourses : all our speech therefore about j 
them should be wholesome, apt to afford 
good instruction, or to excite good affec- 
tions ; " good," as St. Paul speaketh, " for 
the use of edifying, that it may minister 
grace unto the hearers." 

If we must be facetious and merry, the 
field is wide and spacious ; there are mat- 
ters enough in the world besides these 
most august and dreadful things to try 
our faculties and please our humour with; 
eveiywhere light and ludicrous things 
occur : it therefore doth argue a marvel- 
lous poverty of wit and barrenness of 
invention, no less than a strange defect of 
goodness and want of discretion, in those 
who can devise no other subjects to frolic 
on beside these, of all most improper and 
perilous ; who cannot seem ingenious 
under the charge of so highly trespassing 
on decency, disclaiming wisdom, wound- 
ing the ears of others, and their own con- 
sciences. Seem ingenious, I say ; for 
seldom those persons really are such, or 
are capable to discover any wit in a wise 
and manly way. It is not the excellency 
of their fancies, which in themselves usu- 
ally are sorry and insipid enough, but the 
uncouthness of their presumption; not 
their extraordinary wit, but their prodi- 
gious rashness, which is to be admired. 
They are gazed on as the doers of bold 
tricks, who dare perform that which no 
sober man will attempt : they do indeed 
rather desene themselves to be laughed 

at, than their conceits. For what can be 
more ridiculous than we do make our- 
selves, when we thus fiddle and fool with 
our own soids : when, to make vain peo- 
ple merry, we incense God's earnest dis- 
pleasure ; when, to raise a fit of present 
laughter, we expose ourselves to endless 
wailing and woe ; when, to be reckoned 
wits, we prove ourselves stark wild ? 
Surely to this case we may accommodate 
that of a truly great wit, king Solomon : 
" I said of laughter, it is mad ; and of 
mirth, what doeth it ?" Isaac Barrow. 


It is a scandalous misprision, vulgarly 
admitted, concerning religion, that it is 
altogether sullen and sour, requiring a 
dull, lumpish, morose kind of life, barring 
all delight, all mirth, all good humour ; 
whereas, on the contrary, it alone is the 
never-failing source of true, pure, steady 
joy ; such as is deeply rooted in the heart, 
immovably founded in the reason of 
things, permanent like the immortal spirit 
wherein it dwelleth, and like the eternal 
objects whereon it is fixed ; which is not 
apt to fade or cloy ; and is not subject to 
any impressions apt to corrupt or impair 
it : whereas our religion doth not only 
allow us, but even doth oblige us to be 
joyful, as much and often as can be, not 
permitting us to be sad for one minute, 
banishing the least fit of melancholy, 
charging us in all times, on all occasions 
to be cheerful ; supposing, consequently, 
that it is in some manner possible to be 
so, and affording power to effect what it 
doth require. 

Such indeed is the transcendent good- 
ness of our God, that he maketh our 
delight to be our duty, and our sorrow to 
| be our sin, adapting his holy will to our 
I principal instinct ; that he would have us 
j to resemble himself, as in all other per- 
! fections, so in a constant state of happi- 
, ness ; that as he hath provided a glorious 
i heaven of bliss for us hereafter, so he 
| would have us enjoy a comfortable para- 
dise of delight here. He accordingly 
hath ordered the whole frame of our re- 
ligion in a tendency to produce joy in 
those who embrace it; for what is the 
gospel, but, as the holy angel, the first 
promulger of it, did report, " good tidings 
of great joy to all people?" How doth 



God represent himself therein, but as the 
God of love, of hope, of peace, of all con- 
solation, cheerfully smiling in favour on 
us, graciously inviting us to the most 
pleasant enjoyments, bountifully dispen- 
sing most comfortable blessings of mercy, 
of grace, of salvation to us ? for what 
doth our Lord call us to him, but " that 
he may give us rest and refreshment to 
our souls ;" that he may " wipe away all 
tears from our eyes;" that he may save 
us from most woful despair, and settle us 
" in a blessed hope ;" that we may " enter 
into our Master's joy;" that "our joy 
may be full," and such " as no man can 
take from us ?" 

What is the great overture of the gos- 
pel, but the gift of a most blessed '* Com- 
forter, to abide with us for ever," cheering 
our hearts with his lightsome presence 
and ravishing consolations ? Wherein 
doth the kingdom of heaven consist ? " not 
in meat and drink, but in righteousness, 
and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost." 
What are the prime fruits sprouting from 
that root of christian life, the Divine 
Spirit ? they are, as St. Paul telleth us, 
" love, joy, and peace." Are there not 
numberless declarations importing a joy- 
ful satisfaction granted to the observers 
of God's commandments ; that " light is 
sown for the righteous and gladness for 
the upright in heart ?" Doth not our 
Lord pronounce a special beatitude to the 
practiser of every virtue ? And if we scan 
all the doctrines, all the institutions, all 
the precepts, all the promises of Christi- 
anity, will not each appear pregnant with 
matter of joy, will not each yield great 
reason and strong obligation to this duty 
of "rejoicing evermore ?" 

Wherefore a christian, as such (accord- 
ing to the design of his religion, and in 
proportion to his compliance with its 
dictates), is the most jocund, blithe, and 
gay person in the world ; always in hu- 
mour and full of cheer ; continually bear- 
ing a mind well satisfied, a light heart 
and calm spirit, a smooth brow and serene 
countenance, a grateful accent of speech, 
and a sweetly composed tenor of car- 
riage ; no black thought, no irksome de- 
sire, no troublesome passion should lodge 
in his breast ; any furrow, any frown, any 
cloud, doth sit ill on his face ; the least 
fretful word or froward behaviour doth 
utterly misbecome him ; if at any time it 
appear otherwise, it is a deflection from 
his character; it is a blemish and wrong 
to his profession ; it argueth a prevari- 

cation in his judgment, or in his practice ; 
he forgetteth that he is a christian, or 
hath not preserved the innocence belong- 
ing to that name. For if a christian re- 
membereth what he is, or is sensible of 
his condition ; if he reflecteth on the dig- 
nity of his person, the nobleness of his 
relations, the sublimity of his privileges, 
the greatness and certainty of his hopes, 
how can he be out of humour ? Is it not 
absurd for him that is at peace with 
heaven, with his own conscience, with all 
the world ; for the possessor of the best 
goods, and the heir of a blessed immor- 
tality ; for the friend, the favourite, the 
son of God, to fret or wail ? 

He that is settled in a most prosperous 
state, that is (if he pleaseth) secure of its 
continuance, that is well assured of its 
improvement ; that hath whatever good 
he can wish in his reach, and more than 
he can conceive in sure reversion ; what 
account can be given that he should be 
sad, or seem afflicted ? 

He that hath the inexhaustible spring 
of good for his portion ; that' hath his 
welfare entrusted in God's most faithful 
hand ; that hath God's infallible word for 
his support ; that hath free access to him 
" in whose presence is fulness of joy ;" 
that hath frequent tastes of God's good- 
ness, in gracious dispensations of Provi- 
dence, in intercourses of devotion, in the 
influences of grace ; that hath the infinite 
beauty and excellency for the perpetual 
object of his contemplation and affection; 
that enjoyeth the serenity of a sound 
mind, of a pure heart, of a quiet con- 
science, of a sure hope, what can he want 
to refresh or comfort him ? 

If a true and perfect christian hath no 
care to distract him, having discharged 
all his concerns on God's providence ; if 
he hath no fear to dismay him, being 
guarded by the Almighty protection from 
all danger and mischief; if he hath no 
despair to sink him, having a sure refuge 
in the divine mercy and help ; if he hath 
no superstitious terrors or scruples to per- 
plex him, being conscious of his own 
upright intentions to please God, and 
confident of God's merciful willingness 
to accept his sincere endeavours ; if he 
hath no incurable remorse to torment 
him, the stings of guilt being pulled out 
by the merits of his Saviour, applied by 
his faith and repentance ; if he hath no 
longing desires to disquiet him, being 
fully satisfied with that he doth possess, 
or may expect from God's bounty, all 



other things being far beneath his ambi- 
tion or coveting ; if he hath no conten- 
tions to inflame him, knowing nought 
here worth passionately striving for, and 
being resolved to hold a friendly good- 
will toward all men ; if he hath no 
repining envy, seeing that none can be 
more happy than he may be, and that 
every man's good by charity is made his 
own ; if he hath no fretful discontent, 
since he gladly doth acquiesce in the 
condition and success allotted to him, 
resigning his will to God's pleasure, ta- 
king all for best which thence doth occur, 
being assured that " all things shall work 
together for his good" and advantage; if 
he hath no spiteful rancours to corrode 
his heart, no boisterous passions to ruffle 
his mind, no inordinate appetites, per- 
verse humours, or corrupt designs to 
distemper his soul and disturb his life, 
whence then may sorrow come, or how 
can sadness creep into him ? 

What is there belonging to a christian, 
whence grief naturally can spring ? From 
God, " our exceeding joy," the fountain 
of happiness ; from heaven, the region of 
light and bliss ; from divine truth, which 
illustrateth and cheereth the soul ; from 
God's law, which " rejoiceth the heart," 
and " is sweeter than honey and the ho- 
ney-comb ;|" from wisdom, whose " ways 
are ways of pleasantness, and all whose 
paths are peace ;" from virtue, which 
cureth our afflictive distempers, and com- 
poseth our vexatious passions ; from these 
things, I say, about which a christian as 
such is only conversant, no sorrow can be 
derived ; from those sweet sources no 
bitter streams can flow : but hell, the 
flesh, the world, darkness, error, folly, 
sin, and irreligion (things with which a 
christian should have nothing to do, from 
which he should keep aloof, which he 
doth pretend utterly to renounce and 
abandon), these, these alone, are the pa- 
rents of discomfort and anguish. 

Wherefore there is the same reason, 
the same obligation, the same possibility, 
that we should rejoice evermore, as that 
we should always be christians, exactly 
performing duty, and totally forbearing 
sin ; for innocency and indolency do ever 
go together, both together making para- 
dise ; perfect virtue and constant alacrity 
are inseparable companions, both consti- 
tuting beatitude: and as although from 
our infirmity we cannot attain the highest 
pitch of virtue, yet we must aspire thereto, 
endeavouring " to perfect holiness in the 

fear of God:" so, though it may not be 
possible to get, yet it is reasonable to 
seek perpetual joy; which doing in the 
right way, we shall not fail of procuring 
a good measure of it. Isaac Barrow. 


What, I pray, is a gentleman, what 
properties hath he, what qualities are cha- 
racteristical or peculiar to him, whereby 
he is distinguished from others, and raised 
above the vulgar? Are they not espe- 
cially two, courage and courtesy ? which 
he that wanteth is not otherwise than 
equivocally a gentleman, as an image or a 
carcass is a man; without which, gen- 
tility in a conspicuous degree is no more 
than a vain show, or an empty name : 
and these plainly do involve industry, do 
exclude slothfulness ; for courage doth 
prompt boldly to undertake, and reso- 
lutely to dispatch great enterprises and 
employments of difficulty : it is not seen 
in a flaunting garb, or strutting deport- 
ment ; not in hectorly, ruffian-like swag- 
gering or huffing ; not in high looks or 
big words ; but in stout and gallant deeds, 
employing vigour of mind and heart to 
achieve them : how can a man otherwise 
approve himself for courageous, than by 
signalising himself in such a w T ay ? 

And for courtesy, how otherwise can it 
be well displayed than in sedulous acti- 
vity for the good of men ? It surely doth 
not consist in modish forms of address, 
or complimental expressions, or hollow 
professions, commonly void of meaning 
or of sincerity ; but in real performances 
of beneficence when occasion doth invite, 
and in w T aiting for opportunities to do 
good ; the which practice is accompanied 
with some care and pain, adding a price 
to it ; for an easy courtesy is therefore 
small, because easy, and may be deemed 
to proceed rather from ordinary humanity 
than from gentle disposition ; so that, in 
fine, he alone doth appear truly a gentle- 
man, who hath the heart to undergo hard 
tasks for public good, and willingly 
taketh pains to oblige his neighbours and 

The work indeed of gentlemen is not so 
gross, but it may be as smart and painful 
as any other. For all hard work is not 
manual; there are other instruments of 
action beside the plough, the spade, the 



hammer, the shuttle ; nor doth every 
work produce sweat, and visible tiring of 
body ; the head may work hard in con- 
trivance of good designs ; the tongue may 
be very active in dispensing advice, per- 
suasion, comfort, and edification in virtue ; 
a man may bestir himself in " going about 
to do good ;" these are works employing 
the cleanly industry of a gentleman. 

In such works it was that the truest 
and greatest pattern of gentility that ever 
was, did employ himself. 

Who was that ? Even our Lord him- 
self; for he had no particular trade or 
profession ; no man can be more loose 
from any engagement to the world than 
he was ; no man had less need of busi- 
ness or painstaking than he ; for he had 
a vast estate, being " heir of all things," 
all the world being at his disposal ; yea, 
infinitely more, it being in his power with 
a word to create whatever he would to 
serve his need, or satisfy his pleasure ; 
omnipotency being his treasure and sup- 
ply ; he had a retinue of angels to wait 
on him and minister to him; whatever 
sufficiency any man can fancy to himself 
to dispense with his taking pains, that 
had he in a far higher degree ; yet did he 
find work for himself, and continually was 
employed in performing service to God, 
and imparting benefits to men ; nor was 
ever industry exercised on earth compa- 
rable to his. 

Gentlemen therefore would do well to 
make him the pattern of their life, to 
whose industry they must be beholden for 
their salvation. Isaac Barroiv. 


" How good and pleasant a thing it is," 
as David saith, " for brethren (and so we 
are all at least by nature) to live together 
in unity !" How that, as Solomon saith, 
" Better is a dry morsel and quietness 
therewith, than a house full of sacrifices 
with strife !" How delicious that conver- 
sation is which is accompanied with a 
mutual confidence, freedom, courtesy, and 
complacence ; how calm the mind, how 
composed the affections, how serene the 
countenance, how melodious the voice, 
how sweet the sleep, how contentful the 
whole life is of him, that neither deviseth 
mischief against others, nor suspects any 
to be contrived against himself ; and con- 
trariwise, how ingrateful and loathsome 

a thing it is to abide in a state of enmity, 
wrath, dissension; having the thoughts 
distracted with solicitous care, anxious 
suspicion, envious regret ; the heart boil- 
ing with choler, the face overclouded with 
discontent, the tongue jarring and out of 
tune, the ears filled with discordant noises 
of contradiction, clamour, and reproach ; 
the whole frame of body and soul distem- 
pered and disturbed with the worst of 
passions ! How much more comfortable 
it is to walk in smooth and even paths, 
than to wander in rugged ways over- 
grown with briars, obstructed with rubs, 
and beset with snares ; to sail steadily in 
a quiet, than to be tossed in a tempestu- 
ous sea ; to behold the lovely face of hea- 
ven smiling with a cheerful serenity, than 
to see it frowning with clouds, or raging 
with storms ; to hear harmonious con- 
sents, than dissonant wranglings; to see 
objects correspondent in graceful sym- 
metry, than tying disorderly in confused 
heaps ; to be in health and have the na- 
tural humours consent in moderate tem- 
per, than (as it happens in diseases) agi- 
tated with tumultuous commotions ; how 
all senses and faculties of man unani- 
mously rejoice in those emblems of peace, 
order, harmony, and proportion ; yea, how 
nature universally delights in a quiet sta- 
bility, or undisturbed progress of motion ; 
the beauty, strength, and vigour of every- 
thing requires a concurrence of force, co- 
j operation, and contribution of help ; all 
things thrive and flourish by communi- 
cating reciprocal aid, and the world sub- 
sists by a friendly conspiracy of its parts ; 
and especially that political society of men 
chiefly aims at peace as its end, depends 
on it as its cause, relies on it as its sup- 
port ! How much a peaceful state resem- 
bles heaven, into which neither complaint, 
pain, nor clamour do ever enter ; but 
blessed souls converse together in perfect 
love, and in perpetual concord ; and how 
a condition of enmity represents the state 
of hell, that black and dismal region of 
dark hatred, fiery wrath, and horrible tu- 
mult ! How like a paradise the world 
would be, flourishing in joy and rest, if 
men would cheerfully conspire in affec- 
tion, and helpfully contribute to each 
other's content ; and how like a savage 
wilderness now it is, when, like wild 
beasts, they vex and persecute, worry and 
devour each other ! How not only phi- 
losophy hath placed the supreme pitch of 
happiness in a calmness of mind and tran- 
quillity of life, void of care and trouble, 



of irregular passions and perturbations ; 
but that holy scripture itself in that one 
term of peace most usually comprehends 
all joy and content, all felicity and pros- 
perity ; so that the heavenly consort of 
angels, when they agree most highly to 
bless, and to wish the greatest happiness 
to mankind, could not better express their 
sense, than by saying, " Be on earth 
peace, and goodwill among men !" 

Isaac Barrow. 


The great controversy, managed with 
such earnestness and obstinacy between 
God and man, is this, whose will shall 
take place, his or ours. Almighty God, 
by whose constant protection and great 
mercy we subsist, doth claim to himself 
the authority of regulating our practice 
and disposing our fortunes ; but we affect 
to be our own masters and carvers ; not 
willingly admitting any law, not patiently 
brooking any condition which doth not 
sort with our fancy and pleasure. To 
make good his right, God bendeth all his 
forces, and applieth all proper means both 
of sweetness and severity (persuading us 
by arguments, soliciting us by entreaties, 
alluring us by fair promises, scaring us by 
fierce menaces, indulging ample benefits 
to us, inflicting sore corrections on us, 
working in us and on us by secret influ- 
ences of grace, by visible dispensations of 
providence) ; yet so it is, that commonly 
nothing doth avail, our will opposing it- 
self with invincible resolution and stiffness. 
Here indeed the business pincheth ; here- 
in as the chief worth, so the main diffi- 
culty of religious practice consisteth, in 
bending that iron sinew ; in bringing our 
proud hearts to stoop, and our sturdy hu- 
mours to buckle, so as to surrender and 
resign our wills to the just, the wise, the 
gracious will of our God, prescribing our 
duty, and assigning our lot unto us. We 
may accuse our nature, but it is our plea- 
sure ; we may pretend weakness, but it is 
wilfulness which is the guilty cause of our 
misdemeanours ; for by God's help (which 
doth always prevent our needs, and is 
never wanting to those who seriously de- 
sire it) we may be as good as we please, 
if we can please to be good ; there is no- 
thing within us that can resist, if our wills 
do yield themselves up to duty ; to con- 
quer our reason is not hard; for what 

reason of man can withstand the infinite 
cogency of those motives, which induce to 
obedience ? "What can be more easy, than 
by a thousand arguments, clear as day, to 
convince any man that to cross God's will 
is the greatest absurdity in the world, and 
that there is no madness comparable 
thereto ? Nor is it difficult, if we resolve 
on it, to govern any other part or power 
of our nature ; for what cannot we do, if 
we are willing ? "What inclination cannot 
we check, what appetite cannot we re- 
strain, what passion cannot we quell or 
moderate ? What faculty of our soul, or 
member of our body, is not obsequious to 
our will ? Even half the resolution, with 
i which we pursue vanity and sin, woidd 
[ serve to engage us in the ways of wisdom 
and virtue. 

Wherefore in overcoming our will the 
stress lieth ; this is that impregnable for- 
tress which everlastingly doth hold out 
against all the batteries of reason and of 
I grace ; which no force of persuasion, no 
! allurement of favour, no discouragement 
of terror can reduce ; this puny, this im- 
potent tiling it is, which grappleth with 
I omnipotency, and often in a manner baf- 
I fleth it ; and no wonder, for that God 
cloth not intend to overpower our will, or 
to make any violent impression on it, but 
I only to " draw it (as it is in the pi'ophet) 
' with the cords of a man," or by rational 
j inducements to win its consent and com- 
pliance ; our service is not so consider- 
able to him, that he should extort it from 
us ; nor doth he value our happiness at 
so low a rate as to obtrude it on us. His 
victory indeed were no true victory over 
us, if he shoidd gain it by main force, or 
without the concurrence of our will ; our 
works uot being our works, if they do not 
issue from our will ; and our will not being 
our will, if it be not free ; to compel it 
were to destroy it, together with all the 
worth of our virtue and obedience ; where- 
fore the Almighty doth suffer himself to 
be withstood, and beareth repulses from 
us ; nor commonly doth he master our 
will otherwise, than by its own sponta- 
neous conversion and submission to him ; 
if ever we be conquered, as we shall share 
in the benefit, and wear a crown ; so we 
must join in the combat, and partake of 
the victory, by subduing ourselves ; " we 
must take the yoke on us," for God is 
1 only served by volunteers ; he summoneth 
us by his word, he attracteth us by his 
i grace, but we must " freely come unto 
i him." 



Our will, indeed, of all things, is most 
our own ; the only gift, the most proper 
sacrifice we have to offer ; which, there- 
fore, God doth chiefly desire, doth most 
highly prize, doth most kindly accept 
from us. Seeing then our duty chiefly 
moveth on this hinge, the free submission 
and resignation of our will to the will of 
God ; it is this practice which our Lord 
(who came to guide us in the way to hap- 
piness, not only as a teacher by his word 
and excellent doctrine, but as a leader by 
his actions and perfect example) did espe- 
cially set before us, as in the constant 
tenor of his life, so particularly in that 
great exigency wherein, renouncing and 
deprecating his own will, he did express 
an entire submission to God's will. 

Isaac Barrow. 


It is a peculiar excellency of our reli- 
gion that it prescribeth an accurate rule 
of life, most congruous to reason and suit- 
able to our nature ; most conducible to 
our welfare and our content ; most apt to 
procure each man's private good, and to 
promote the public benefit of all ; by the 
strict observance whereof we shall do what 
is worthy of ourselves and most becoming 
us ; yea, shall advance our nature above 
itself into a resemblance of the divine na- 
ture ; we shall do God right and obtain 
his favour; we shall oblige and benefit 
men, acquiring withal good-will and good 
respect from them ; we shall purchase to 
ourselves all the conveniences of a sober 
life, and all the comforts of a good con- 
science. For if we first examine the pre- 
cepts directive of our practice in relation 
to God, what can be more just, or comely, 
or pleasant, or beneficial to us, than are 
those duties of piety which our religion 
doth enjoin ? What can be more fit than 
that we should most highly esteem and 
honour him who is most excellent ? that 
we should bear most hearty affection to 
him who is in himself most good and most 
beneficial to us ? that we should have a 
most awful dread of him who is so infi- 
nitely powerful, holy, and just ? that we 
should be very grateful unto him from 
whom we have received our being, with 
all the comforts and conveniences thereof? 
that we should entirely trust and hope in 
him who can do wdiat he will, and will do 

whatever in reason we can expect from 
his goodness, and can never fail to per- 
form what he hath promised ? that we 
should render all obedience and obser- 
vance to him whose children, wdiose ser- 
vants, whose subjects we are born; by 
whose protection and provision we enjoy 
our life and livelihood ? can there be a 
higher privilege than liberty of access, 
wdth assurance of being favourably re- 
ceived in our needs, to him who is tho- 
roughly able to supply them ? Can we 
desire on easier terms to receive benefits 
than by acknowledging our wants, and 
asking for them ? Can there be required 
a more gentle satisfaction from us for our 
offences than confession of them, accom- 
panied with repentance and effectual reso- 
lution to amend ? Is it not, in fine, most 
equal and fair that we should be obliged 
to promote his glory, who hath obliged 
himself to further our good ? The prac- 
tice of such a piety as it is apparently 
Xoyacf) Xarpeia, " a reasonable service," 
so it cannot but produce excellent fruits 
of advantage to ourselves, a joyful peace 
of conscience, and a comfortable hope, a 
freedom from all superstitious terrors and 
scruples ; from all tormenting cares and 
anxieties ; it cannot but draw down from 
God's bountiful hands showers of bless- 
ings on our heads, and of joys into our 
hearts ; whence our obligation to these 
duties is not only reasonable but very de- 

Consider we next the precepts by which 
our religion doth regulate our deportment 
toward our neighbours and brethren (so 
it styleth all men, intimating thence the 
duties it requireth us to perform toward 
them) ; and what directions in that kind 
can be imagined comparably so good, so 
useful, as those which the gospel afford- 
eth ? An honest Pagan historian saith 
of the christian profession, that nil nisi 
justum suadet et lene ; the which is a true, 
though not full character thereof. It en- 
joineth us that we should sincerely and 
tenderly love one another, should ear- 
nestly desire and delight in each other's 
good, should heartily sympathize with all 
the evils and sorrows of our brethren, 
should be ready to yield them all the help 
and comfort we are able, being willing to 
part with our substance, our ease, our 
pleasure, for their benefit or succour ; not 
confining this our charity to any sorts of 
men, particularly related or affected to- 
ward us, but in conformity to our hea- 
venly Father's boundless goodness, ex- 



tending it to all ; that we should mutually 
bear one another's burdens, and bear with 
one another's infirmities, mildly resent 
and freely remit all injuries, all discour- 
tesies done unto us ; retaining no grudge 
in our hearts, executing no revenge, but 
requiting them with good wishes and good 
deeds. It chargeth us to be quiet and 
orderly in our stations, diligent in our 
callings, veracious in our words, upright 
in our dealings, observant of our relations, 
obedient and respectful toward our supe- 
riors, meek and gentle to our inferiors ; 
modest and lowly, ingenuous and com- 
pliant in our conversation, candid and be- 
nign in our censures, innocent and in- 
offensive, yea, courteous and obliging in 
all our behaviour toward all persons. It 
commandeth us to root out of our hearts 
all spite and rancour, all envy and ma- 
lignity, all pride and haughtiness, all evil 
suspicion and jealousy ; to restrain our 
tongue from all slander, all detraction, all 
reviling, all bitter and harsh language ; 
to banish from our practice whatever may 
injure, may hurt, may needlessly vex or 
trouble our neighbour ; it engageth us to 
prefer the public good before any private 
convenience, before our own opinion or 
humour, our credit or fame, our profit or 
advantage, our ease or pleasure ; rather 
discarding a less good from ourselves than 
depriving others of a greater. Now, who 
can number or estimate the benefits that 
spring from the practice of these duties, 
either to the man that observeth them, or 
to all men in common ? divinest 
christian charity, what tongue can wor- 
thily describe thy most heavenly beauty, 
thy incomparable sweetness, thy more 
than royal clemency and bounty ? how 
nobly dost thou enlarge our minds be- 
yond the narrow sphere of self and pri- 
vate regard into an universal care and 
complacence, making every man ourself, 
and all concernments to be ours ! how 
dost thou entitle us unto, how dost thou 
invest us in, all the goods imaginable ; 
dost enrich us with the wealth, dost pre- 
fer us with the honour, dost adorn us with 
the wisdom and the virtue, dost bless us 
with all prosperity of the world, whilst all 
our neighbour's good, by our rejoicing 
therein, becometh our own! how dost 
thou raise a man above the reach of all 
mischiefs and disasters, of all troubles and 
griefs, since nothing can disturb or dis- 
compose that soul wherein thou dost con- 
stantly reside, and absolutely reign ! how 
easily dost thou, without pain or hazard, 

without drawing blood or striking stroke, 
render him that enjoy eth thee an abso- 
lute conqueror over all his foes, trium- 
phant over all injuries without, and all 
passions within ; for that he can have no 
enemy, who will be a friend to all, and 
nothing is able to cross him, who is dis- 
posed to take everything well ! how socia- 
ble, how secure, how pleasant a life might 
we lead under thy kindly governance ! 
what numberless sorrows and troubles, 
fears and suspicions, cares and distrac- 
tions of mind at home, what tumults and 
tragedies abroad, might be prevented, if 
men would but hearken to thy mild sug- 
gestions ! what a paradise would this 
world then become, in comparison to what 
it now is, where thy good precepts and 
advices being neglected, uncharitable pas- 
sions and unjust desires are predominant! 
how excellent then is that doctrine which 
brought thee down from heaven, and 
would but men embrace thee, the peace 
and joy of heaven with thee ! 

If we farther survey the laws and di- 
rections which our religion prescribeth 
concerning the particular management of 
our souls and bodies in their respective 
actions and enjoyments, we shall also find 
that nothing could be devised more wor- 
thy of us, more agreeable to reason, more 
productive of our welfare and our content. 
It obligeth us to preserve unto our reason 
its natural prerogative, or due empire in 
our souls, and over our bodies, not to suf- 
fer the brutish part to usurp and domi- 
neer over us ; that we be not swayed 
down by this earthly lump, not enslaved 
to bodily temper, not transported with 
tumultuary humours, not deluded by vain 
fancy ; that neither inward propensions 
nor impressions from without be able to 
seduce us to that which is unworthy of 
us, or mischievous to us. It enjoineth us 
to have sober and moderate thoughts con- 
cerning ourselves, suitable to our total de- 
pendence on God, to our natural mean- 
ness and weakness, to our sinful inclina- 
tions, to the guilt we have contracted in 
our lives ; that, therefore, we be not puffed 
up with self-conceit, or vain confidence in 
ourselves, or in anything about us (any 
wealth, honour, or prosperity). It direct- 
eth us also to compose our minds into a 
calm, serene, and cheerful state ; that we 
be not easily distempered with anger, or 
distracted with care, or overborne with 
grief, or disturbed with any accident be- 
falling us ; but that we be content in every 
condition, and entertain patiently all 



events, yea, accept joyfully from God's 
hand whatever he reacheth to us. It 
commandeth us to restrain our appetites, 
to be temperate in all our enjoyments, to 
abstain from all irregular pleasures, which 
are base in kind, or excessive in degree ; 
which may corrupt our minds, or impair 
our health, or endamage our estate, or 
stain our good name, or prejudice our 
peace or repose ; it doth not prohibit us 
the use of any creature, whence we may 
receive innocent convenience or delight, 
but indulgeth us a prudent and sober use 
of them all, with the sense of God's good- 
ness, and thankfulness to him who be- 
stoweth them on us. Our religion also 
farther ordereth us (so far as our neces- 
sary occasions or duties permit) to seques- 
ter and elevate our minds from these low 
and transitory things, from the fading 
glories, the unstable possessions, the va- 
nishing delights of this world; things in- 
deed unworthy the attention, unworthy 
the affection of a heaven-born and im- 
mortal spirit ; that we should fix our 
thoughts, our desires, our endeavours on 
objects most worthy of them, objects high 
and heavenly, pure and spiritual, infinitely 
stable and durable ; not to love the world 
and the things therein ; to be careful for 
nothing, but to cast all our care on God's 
providence ; not to labour for the meat 
that perisheth, not to trust in uncertain 
riches ; to have our treasure, our heart, 
our hope, our conversation above in hea, 
ven. Such directions our religion pre- 
scribeth, by compliance with which, if 
man be at all capable of being happy, as- 
suredly his happiness must be attained ; 
for that no present enjoyment can render 
a man happy, all experience proclaimeth ; 
the restless motions we continually see, 
the woful complaints we daily hear, do 
manifestly demonstrate. 

And who seeth not the great benefits 
and the goodly fruits accruing from ob- 
servance of these laws and rules ? who 
discerneth not the admirable consent of 
all these particular injunctions in our reli- 
gion with that general one, " Whatever 
things are true, whatever things are just, 
whatever things are honest, whatever 
things are pure, whatever things are lovely, 
whatever things are of good report, if 
there be any virtue, or any praise, that 
we should mind such things," and prac- 
tise them ? Such, and far more excellent 
than I am able to describe, is the rule of 
christian practice ; a rule in perfection, in 
beauty, in efficacy far surpassing all other 

rules ; productive of a goodness more com- 
plete, more lovely, more sprightful than 
any other doctrine or institution hath been 
or can be able to bring forth ; much ex- 
ceeding, not only " the righteousness of 
blind Pharisees," but all the virtue of the 
most sage philosophers ; somewhat in part 
concurrent therewith philosophy hath 
descried and delivered (it is no wonder it 
should, since all of it is so plainly conso- 
nant to reason) ; yet what philosophy 
hath in this kind afforded, is in truth, if 
compared with what our religion teacheth, 
exceedingly meagre, languid, and flat : 
two words here, " Thou shalt love the 
Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy 
neighbour as thyself," do signify more, do 
contain in them more sense and savour, 
to the judgment and relish of a well-dis- 
posed mind, than the ethics of Aristotle, 
the offices of Cicero, the precepts and dis- 
sertations of Epictetus, the many other 
volumes of philosophical morality all put 
together; in matter our rule is far more 
rich and full, more sweet and sapid than 
theirs ; in force and efficacy it doth also 
far excel them. 

We may hereto annex this considera- 
tion, which may pass for another peculiar 
advantage of our religion, that as it de- 
livereth so excellent and perfect a rule of 
life, so it delivereth it unto us pure from 
any alloy debasing, free of any clog in- 
cumbering it ; for that it chiefly, and in a 
manner only requireth of us a rational and 
spiritual service, consisting in perform- 
ance of substantial duties, plainly neces- 
sary or profitable ; not withdrawing us 
from the practice of solid piety and virtue 
by obligations to a tedious observance of 
many external rites ; not spending the 
vigour of our minds on superficial formali- 
ties (or busy scrupulosities, as Tertullian 
termeth them), such as serve only to amuse 
childish fancies, or to depress slavish spi- 
rits. It supposeth us men, men of good 
understanding and ingenuous disposition, 
and dealeth with us as such ; and much 
more such it rendereth us, if we comply 
therewith. The ritual observances it en- 
joineth are as few in number, in nature, 
simple and easy to perform, so evidently 
reasonable, very decent, and very useful ; 
apt to instruct us in, able to excite us 
unto, the practice of most wholesome du- 
ties; which consideration showeth this 
doctrine to be complete, suitable to the 
most adult age and best constitution, to 
the most ripe and improved capacities of 



Our religion doth not only thus truly 
and fully acquaint us with our duty, but, 
which is another peculiar virtue thereof, 
it buildeth our duty on most solid grounds, 
presseth it with most valid inducements, 
draweth it from the best principles, and 
driveth it to the best ends ; no philosophy 
can in any measure represent virtue so 
truly estimable and eligible, can assign so 
evident and cogent reason why we should 
embrace it and strictly adhere thereto, 
can so well discover or describe the ex- 

the losses commonly incident to virtue ? 
No, surely, when it cometh to earnest 
trial, it will hardly seem reason or wisdom 
so to do. But the christian doctrine, as 
it compriseth, and in an inferior order 
urgeth also such grounds and arguments, 
so it doth exhibit others far more solid 
and forcible ; it commendeth goodness to 
us, not only as agreeable to man's imper- 
fect and fallible reason, but as conform- 
able to the perfect goodness of God, as 
the dictate of his infallible wisdom, as the 

cellent fruits that grow-ou it, as doth this j resolution of his most holy will, as en- 

philosophy of ours, as the ancient fathers 
are wont to call it. Other philosophies 
have indeed highly commended virtue, 
and vehemently exhorted thereto ; but 
the grounds on which they laid its praise 
are very sandy, the arguments by which 
they enforced its practice are very feehle, 
the principles from which they deduced it, 
and the ends which they propounded 
thereto, are very poor and mean, if we 
discuss them ; at least, if they be corn- 

joined by his unquestionable authority, as 
our indispensable duty, and only way to 
happiness ; the principles from which it 
willeth us to act, are love, reverence, and 
gratitude to God, hearty good-will toward 
men, and a sober regard to our own true 
welfare ; the ends which it prescribeth are 
God's honour, public edification, and the 
salvation of our own souls ; it stirreth us 
to good practice, by minding us that we 
shall thereby resemble the supreme good- 

pared with ours ; virtue, said they, is a | ness, shall express our gratitude towards 

thing of itself, on account of its own na 
tive beauty and worth, abstracting all 
reward or profit springing from it, very 
admirable and desirable; it is beside a 
very pleasant and very useful thing, be- 
getting tranquillity and satisfaction of 
mind; yielding health, safety, reputation, 
pleasure, quiet, and other manifold con- 
veniences of life ; but can so magnificent 
and so massy a fabric of commendation 
stand firm on such foundations as these? 
are these principles of love and admiration 
toward we know not what, these ends of 
temporal advantage and convenience, so 
noble or worthy ? are the accommodations 
of this short and uncertain life a proper 
encouragement, or a just recompence for 
the laborious achievements of true vir- 
tue ? are these weapons sufficient to for- 
tify men, or these discourses able to ani- 
mate them in resisting the temptations 
which avert from virtue, or avoiding the 
enchantments which allure to vice ? will 
men, I say, readily, for the sake of an 
imaginary or insensible thing (a goodly 
name only for all they see), which repre- 
sented no more of benefit attending it, 
cross the bent of their natural inclinations, 
forfeit their present ease, reject certain 
fruitions of pleasure, waive occasions of 
getting to themselves profit, honour, and 
power, goods so manifestly substantial 
and grateful to nature ? will they undergo 
contentedly the difficulties, encounter the 
dangers, sustain the pains, the disgraces, 

that great benefactor, unto whom we owe 
all that we have ; shall discharge our duty, 
pay due honour, perform faithful service 
to our Almighty Lord and King ; that we 
shall thereby surely decline the wrath and 
displeasure of God, shall surely obtain his 
favour and mercy, with all sorts of bless- 
ings needful or profitable for us ; that we 
shall not only avoid regrets and terrors of 
conscience here, but escape endless mise- 
ries and torments ; we shall not only pro- 
cure present comfort and peace of mind, 
but shall acquire crowns of everlasting 
glory and bliss. These surely are the 
truest and firmest grounds on wdrich a 
right estimation of virtue can subsist ; 
these are motives incomparably most ef- 
fectual to the embracing thereof; these 
are the purest fountains whence it can 
spring, the noblest marks whither it can 
aim ; a virtue so grounded, so reared, is 
certainly most sound and genuine, most 
firm and stable, most infinitely beneficial. 
It is a peculiar advantage of Christianity 
(which no other law r or doctrine so much 
as pretendeth to), that it not only clearly 
teacheth us and strongly persuadeth us to 
so excellent a way of life, but provideth 
also sufficient help and ability to practise 
it ; without which (such is the frailty of 
our nature, as experience proveth), that 
all instruction, all exhortation, all encou- 
ragement, would avail little. Other laws, 
for want of this, are in effect " ministries 
of condemnation," racks of conscience, 



parents of guilt and of regret; reading 
hard lessons, but not assisting to do after 
them ; imposing heavy burdens, but not 
enabling to bear them : our law is not 
such ; it is not a dead letter, but hath a 
quickening spirit accompanying it ; it not 
only soundeth through the ear, but stamp- 
eth itself on the heart of him that sin- 
cerely doth embrace it ; it always carrieth 
with it a sure guide to all good, and a 
safeguard from all evil ; if our mind be 
doubtful or dark, it directeth us to a faith- 
ful oracle, where we may receive counsel 
and information ; if our passions are un- 
ruly, if our appetites are outrageous, if 
temptations be violent, and threaten to 
overbear us, it leadeth us to a full maga- 
zine, whence we may furnish ourselves 
with all manner of arms to withstand and 
subdue them ; if our condition, in respect 
to all other means, be disconsolate or de- 
sperate, it sendeth us to a place where we 
shall not fail of refreshment and relief; it 
offereth, on our earnest seeking and ask- 
ing, the wisdom and strength of God him- 
self for our direction, our aid, our sup- 
port and comfort, in all exigencies. To 
them who, with due fervency and con- 
stancy ask it, God hath in the gospel pro- 
mised to " grant his holy spirit," to guide 
them in tbeir ways, to admonish them of 
their duty, to strengthen them in obedi- 
ence, to guard them from surprises and 
assaults of temptation, to sustain them 
and cheer them in afflictions. This ad- 
vantage, as it is proper to our religion, so 
it is exceedingly considerable; for what 
would the most perfect rule or way signify, 
without as well a power to observe it, as 
a light to discern it ? and how can man 
(so ignorant, so impotent, so inconstant a 
creature ; so easily deluded by false ap- 
pearances, and transported with disorderly 
passions ; so easily shaken and unsettled 
by any small assault,) either alone, with- 
out some guidance perceive, or by himself 
without some assistance prosecute, what 
is good for him, especially in cases of in- 
tricacy and difficulty ? how should he who 
hath frequent experience of his own weak- 
ness, not be utterly disheartened and cast 
into despair, either of standing fast in a 
good state, or of recovering himself from 
a bad one ; of rescuing himself from any 
vicious inclination, or attaining any vir- 
tuous habit, if he did not apprehend such 
a friendly power vigilantly guarding him, 
ready on all occasions to succour and abet 
him ? this consideration it is, which only 
can nourish our hope, can excite our cou- 

rage, can quicken and support our endea- 
vour in religious practice, by assuring us 
that there is no duty so hard, which by 
the grace vouchsafed us we may not 
achieve ; that there is no enemy so 
mighty, which, by the help afforded us, 
we cannot master ; so that, although we 
find ourselves " able to do nothing of our- 
selves, yet we can do all things by Christ 
that strengthened us." 

Isaac Barrow. 


Concerning the qualities and endow- 
ments of the Messias, which constitute his 
personal character, they are, as was ex- 
pedient, such as should dispose and fit 
him for the discharge of his great em- 
ployment and duty with utmost advan- 
tage and especial decency ; in general, he 
was to be endued with super-eminent 
piety and sanctity, with perfect innocence 
and integrity ; so it is implied in all the 
descriptions of his person and perform- 
ances. " The sceptre of thy kingdom is 
a right sceptre : thoulovest righteousness 
and hatest iniquity ; wherefore God, even 
thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil 
of gladness above thy fellows," said the 
psalmist of him ; and, " righteousness 
shall be the girdle of his loins, and faith- 
fulness the girdle of his reins," said Isaiah 
of him (denoting the ready disposition of 
his mind to do whatever was good) ; and, 
" He had done no violence, neither was 
there any deceit in his lips," saith the 
same prophet of him again. Some parti- 
cular virtues and abilities are also ascribed 
to him in an eminent degree ; excellent 
wisdom and knowledge in spiritual mat- 
ters, thus represented by Isaiah : " The 
spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the 
spirit of wisdom and understanding, the 
spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of 
knowledge and fear of the Lord, and shall 
make him of quick understanding in the 
fear of the Lord :" eloquence also, skill 
and aptitude to instruct men, which that 
most evangelical prophet thus sets forth : 
" The Lord hath given me the tongue of 
the learned, that I should know how to 
speak a word in season to him that is 
weary." That he should be meek, and 
gentle, and compassionate toward men, 
in regard to their infirmities and afflic- 
tions ; mild and lowly in his conversation, 



the prophets also signify : " He shall," 
saith Isaiah, " feed his flock like a shep- 
herd ; he shall gather the lambs with his 
arm, and carry them in his bosom, and 
shall gently lead those that are with 
young :" " A bruised reed shall he not 
break, and the smoking flax shall he not 
quench:" and, " Behold," saith Zechariah, 
" thy king cometh unto thee ; he is just, 
and having salvation ; lowly, and riding 
on an ass." That he should be of a quiet 
and peaceable disposition, nowise fierce or 
contentious, turbulent or clamorous, Isaiah 
declares, thus saying of him (as St. Mat- 
thew cites him), " He shall not strive, 
nor cry, neither shall any man hear his 
voice in the streets." To his admirable 
patience in bearing afflictions and con- 
tumelies, Isaiah thus renders express tes- 
timony : " He was oppressed, and he was 
afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; 
he was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, 
and as a sheep before her shearers is 
dumb, so he opened not his mouth ;" and, 
" I gave my back to the smiter ; and my 
cheeks to them that plucked off the hair ; 
I hid not my face from shame and spit- 
ting." His invincible courage and reso- 
lution in God's service, together with his 
strong confidence in God and intire sub- 
mission to God's will, is thus described by 
the same prophet : " The Lord God," 
saith he, " will help me, therefore I shall 
not be confounded ; therefore have I set 
my face like a flint, and I know that I 
shall not be ashamed." " The Lord God 
hath opened mine ear, and I was not re- 
bellious, neither turned away back." His 
general goodness and boundless charity to- 
ward men, the nature of his office and" de- 
sign, together with the whole course and 
tenor of his practice, such as they are re- 
presented, do suppose and imply. 

Now that Jesus (our Lord) did in his 
person fully correspond, and did by his 
practice thoroughly make good this moral 
high character ; the story of his life with 
admirable simplicity and sincerity, without 
any semblance of disguise or artifice, re- 
presented by persons who most intimately 
were acquainted and long conversed with 
him, or by persons immediately informed 
by them, and with greatest constancy at- 
tested to and maintained by them, "doth 
plainly show ; wherein his incomparable 
piety toward God, his readiness to fulfill 
all righteousness, his intire submission and 
resignation of himself to God's will, the 
continual fervency, devotion of all kinds, 
prayer, thanksgiving, fasting, practised in 

the most intense degree and in the most 
reverend manner, his pure and ardent zeal 
for God's glory, his steadfast resolution, 
and indefatigable industry in God's ser- 
vice, making it his meat to do the will of 
him that sent him, and to perform his 

Wherein an unspotted innocence, not 
only exempted from the vices and defile- 
ments, but raised above the vanities and 
impertinences of the world ; secured by a 
magnanimous contempt, or neglect and 
abstinence from all worldly grandeur and 
splendour ; all secular wealth and profit, 
all bodily delight and ease, wherein an 
admirable wisdom and prudence, express- 
ed in all his demeanour and his discourse ; 
in his discerning the secret thoughts and 
dissembled intentions of men ; in his de- 
claring and defending truth, detecting and 
confuting errors ; in baffling learned and 
wily opposers ; in eluding captious ques- 
tions, and evading treacherous designs ; 
in not meddling with the secular affairs 
and interests of men ; in not incumber- 
ing himself with the needless cares and 
occupations of this life, nor entangling 
himself in the snares of this world ; in 
dexterously accommodating his behaviour 
and his speech to the dispositions, the ca- 
pacities, the needs of men ; to the cir- 
cumstances of things and exigencies of 
occasion, so as did best conduce to the 
promoting his great design and under- 
taking ; so that the people observing his 
proceedings could not but be astonished, 
and ask, " Whence hath this man this 
wisdom ?" so that they could not but ac- 
knowledge, " He hath done all things 

Wherein particularly an excellent fa- 
culty of speaking and teaching, of inter- 
preting and applying the holy scriptures, 
of proving and persuading God's truth, 
whereby he drew the people after him, 
converted many of them to amendment 
of life, convinced the most averse and in- 
credulous ; so that " all that heard him 
were amazed at his understanding and an- 
swers ;" so that " all bare witness, and 
wondered at the gracious words which 
proceeded out of his mouth ;" so that the 
officers sent to apprehend him did con- 
fess, " Never man spake like this man." 

Wherein an invincible fortitude and 
gallantry, expressed in his most constant 
profession and undaunted maintenance of 
truth and goodness ; in his encountering 
the prejudices, detecting the frauds, re- 
proving the vices of the age, though up- 



held by the greatest persons and by pre- 
valent factions ; in his plain dealing and 
free speaking with all sincerity and all 
authority ; in his zealous checking and 
chastising profane abuses ; in his disre- 
garding the rash and fond opinions of 
men, their spiteful obloquies, harsh cen- 
sures, slanderous imputations, and unjust 
reproaches ; in his foreseeing the greatest 
of dangers and worst of mischiefs that 
could arrive to man, yet cheerfully en- 
countering and firmly sustaining them ; 
sustaining all the violent oppositions and 
assaults which the most virulent malice 
and envy, inflamed with superstition and 
blind zeal, could set against him. 

Wherein a most quiet and peaceable 
disposition, apparent from his never at- 
tempting any resistance, or any revenge 
on provocation of frequent great affronts 
and injuries ; from his never raising any 
tumults, nor fomenting any quarrels, nor 
meddling with any litigious matters, nor 
encroaching on any man's right or office ; 
by his ready compliance with received 
customs ; by his paying tribute, although 
not due from him, to prevent offence ; by 
his frequent instructions and exhortations 
to peace, to innocence, to patience, to due 
obedience, to performing due respect to 
superiors, and paying customs to govern- 
ors ; to the yielding a docile ear, and an 
observance to those who " sat in Moses's 

Wherein an exceeding meekness and 
gentleness, demonstrated in all his conver- 
sation ; in resenting very moderately, or 
rather not resenting at all, most unjust 
hatreds, outrageous calumnies, bitter re- 
proaches and contumelies from his adver- 
saries ; very perverse neglects and ingra- 
titudes from multitudes of people ; many 
infirmities, stupidities, distrusts, basenesses 
and treacheries from his own nearest 
friends and followers. In his passing over 
and easily pardoning the greatest offences 
committed against him, yea, sometime ex- 
tenuating and excusing them. In the 
mildness of his censures, expostulations, 
and reproofs ; in his tempering the fierce 
zeal, hard censure, and rigorous proceed- 
ing against persons unhappy or faulty ; in 
his tender pity of all persons in any want, 
distress, or trouble ; in his earnest com- 
miseration and bewailing the vengeance 
he foresaw impendent on his persecutors, 
and in his praying for their pardon. 

Wherein a marvellous humility and low- 
liness of mind expressed by his not seek- 
ing honour or applause from men, but 

shunning and rejecting it; his not as- 
suming to himself, but ascribing all to 
God, and referring all to his glory, by his 
making no ostentation of his miraculous 
power and high endowments, but so far 
as would comport with the prosecution of 
his main purpose, the glory and service of 
God, the good and welfare of men, care- 
fully suppressing and concealing them ; 
in his without dissatisfaction or discou- 
ragement bearing scorn, and contempt, 
and obloquy ; in his willing condescension 
to the meanest offices and employments ; 
in his free and familiar conversation with 
all sorts of people, with the lowest and 
most despicable, with the worst and most 
odious, for their good ; he not despising 
the poorest or vilest wretch who seemed 
capable of receiving any benefit from him; 
in his easiness to be entreated, and readi- 
ness to comply with the desires of any 
man imploring succour or relief from him; 
in his being ready, not only to oblige, but 
to be obliged and receive courtesies from 
any man ; to answer the invitation of a 
pharisee or of a publican ; to accept fa- 
vourably the well-intended respect of a 
poor woman ; in the softness and sweet- 
ness of his language to all men, particu- 
larly to his disciples ; " Be of good cou- 
rage, daughter ;" " son, be of good cheer;" 
" I say unto you, my friends ;" " Little 
children, I am a little while with you." 
Such was his style and conversation to- 
wards his inferiors. 

Wherein an unparalleled patience in 
contentedly and cheerfully, through all 
the course of his life, undertaking and un- 
dergoing whatever by God's will and pro- 
vidence was imposed on him, how grievous 
and distasteful soever to human appre- 
hension or sense ; the extremest penury, 
the hardest toil, the vilest disgraces, the 
most bitter pains and anguishes incident 
to body or mind, the most horrid and 
most sorrowful of deaths, all these aggra- 
vated by the conscience of his own clear- 
est innocence, by the extreme ingratitude 
of those who misused him, by the sense 
of God's displeasure for the sin of man, 
by all the embittering considerations 
which a most lively piety and tender cha- 
rity suggested ; in submitting to all this 
most freely and most calmly without any 
regret, any disturbance. 

Wherein an unexpressible and uncon- 
ceivable charity (" a charity indeed which 
surpasseth knowledge," as St. Paul speak- 
eth), evidenced in the constant strain and 
tenor of his whole life, passing through 



all his designs, all his words, and all his 
actions ; for Sir)\Qev evepyerwv, as St. 
Peter says in the Acts, he did nothing else 
but " go about doing good," and benefit- 
ing men ; curing their diseases, relieving 
their wants, instructing their minds, re- 
forming their manners, drawing them to 
God and goodness, disposing them to the 
attainment of everlasting bliss and salva- 
tion. It is love, we may observe, which 
was the soul that animated and actuated 
him in all things ; which carried him with 
unwearied resolution and alacrity through 
all the cruel hardships and toils, through 
all the dismal crosses and ignominies he 
endured; his life was in effect but one 
continual expression of charity, differently 
exerting itself according to various oppor- 
tunities and circumstances, and needs of 
men, the which was consummated and 
sealed by his death, the highest instance 
of charity that could be ; for, " Greater 
love hath no man than this, that a man 
lay down his life for his friend." 

Wherein, finally (in which life, I say, of 
Jesus), all holiness, all virtue, all good- 
ness suitable to him, who was to be not 
only the teacher and the persuader of the 
best life, but a living standard and pattern 
thereof; who was to merit of God in man's 
behalf, to conciliate God's favour towards 
us, and appease his anger against us, do 
shine and sparkle with a beauty and a 
lustre transcending all expression. 

Isaac Barrow. 


He that w r ill consider the nature of men, 
or observe their common practice (mark- 
ing what apprehensions usually steer 
them, what inclinations sway them, in 
their elections and pursuits of things), 
shall, I suppose, find that from an invin- 
cible principle of self-love, or sensuality, 
deriving itself through all their motions 
of soul, and into all their actions of life, 
men generally do so strongly propend to 
the enjoyment of present sensible goods, 
that nothing but a presumption of some 
considerable benefit to be obtained by abs- 
tinence from them, or of some grievous 
mischief consequent on the embracing 
them, can withhold them from pursuing 
such enjoyment. From hence (seeing 
fancy, reason, and experience do all prompt 
men to a foresight of events, and force 

them to some regard of the consequences 
of things) it followeth that hope and fear 
are the main springs which set on work 
all the wheels of human action ; so that 
any matter being propounded, if men can 
hope that it will yield pleasant or profit- 
able (that is, tending to pleasant) fruits, 
they wall undertake it ; if they do fear its 
consequences will be distasteful or hurt- 
ful, they will decline it ; very rare it is to 
find that the love or liking of a thing, as 
in itself amiable to the mind, or suitable 
to reason, doth incline men thereto ; that 
honest things, bare of present advantages, 
and barren of hopeful fruit, are heartily 
pursued ; that anything otherwise avert- 
eth us from itself, than as immediately 
presenting some mischief, or dangerously 
threatening it. When goodness therefore 
doth clash with interest or pleasure, hu- 
man wisdom (the <ppovr)}ia rt)s trap/cos, 
" natural sense of the flesh," which St. 
Paul speaketh of as opposite to virtue) 
will dispose men to take part with these ; 
and, except some higher aid come in to 
succour goodness, it is odds that ever 
they will prevail over it. If it do appear 
that virtue can pay men w r ell for their 
pains, they, perhaps, may be her servants; 
but they will hardly w 7 ait on her in pure 
courtesy, or work in her service for no- 
thing ; if she bringeth visibly a good dowry 
with her, she may be courted ; but her 
mere beauty or worth will draw few suitors 
to her ; who will forego sensible plea- 
sures, or waive substantial profit ; who 
will reject the overtures of power or ho- 
nour, for her sake ? And if vice, how ill 
soever it look or leer, do offer fairly, how 
many persons will be so nice or squeam- 
ish, as merely out of fancy, or in despite 
to her, to refuse or renounce her ? In 
short, as men are baited with pleasure or 
bribed with profit, so they pursue, as they 
are stung with pain or curbed with fear, 
so they eschew things ; it is a gift (or a 
specious appearance of some good offered) 
which perpetually moveth the greatest 
part, which often " blindeth the eyes